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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

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FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
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THE    BIOGRAPHICAL    EDITION 

OF  THE  WORKS  OF 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

LETTERS 
VOL.  I 


THE   BIOGRAPHICAL   KDITION 
OF  STEVENSON'S  WORKS 


NOVELS  AND  ROMANCES 
TREASIRE  ISLAND 
TRINCU  OTTO 
KIDNAPPED 
THE  BLACK  ARROW 
THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE 
THE  WRONG  BOX 
THE  WRECKER 
DAVID  BALPOLR 
THE  EBBTIDE 
WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 
ST.  IVES 

SHORTER  STORIES 

NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS 

THE  DYNAMITER 

THE  MERRY  MEN.  tontai^ing  DR.  JEKYLL 

AND  MR.  HYDE 
ISLAND  NIGHTS'  ENTERTAINMENTS 

ESS  A  YS,   TRA  I'ELS  &•  SKETCHES 
AM  INLAND  VOYAGE 
TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 
VIRGINIBUS  PUERISQUE 
FAMILIAR  STUDIES 
THE  AMATEUR   EMIGRANT,  itnlmininf  THE 

SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 
MEMORIES  AND  PORTRAITS 
IN  THE  SOUTH  SEAS 
ACROSS  THE  PIJIINS 
ESSAYS  OF  TRAVEL  AND  IN  THE  ART  OF 

WRITING 
•AY  MORALS  AND  OTHER  PaPEP 

POEMS 
COMPtSTE  POEMS    

THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  LOUIS 

STEVENSON.     4  »ol«. 
THE  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

By  Graham  Balfour.     Abridgvd  Edition  In  one  TOlum* 


Thiriy-imt  vtlutrtis.     Said  singly  or  in  Jttl 
Ptrvo.'umi.  CIclh,  Si  JO  net:  Lf'-f  I.ertlhtr.  Jy.n  ntt 

Charles  Scribnir's  Sons,  New  York 


BIOGRAPHICAL   EDITION 

THE    LETTERS 

OF 

ROBERT     LOUIS 
STEVENSON 


EDITED   BY 

SIDNEY    COLVIN 


A  NEW  EDITION   REARRANGED    IN   FOUR    VOLUMES 
WITH    150  NEW    LETTERS 


VOL.  I 
1868- 1880 

SCOTLAND — FRANCE — CALIFORNIA 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1917 


COPYKICHT,  1890,  1907,  IQII,  BT 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


This  rearranged  and  enlarged  edition  published  June,  1911. 
The  original  edition  of  Rot)crt  I^ouis  Stevenson's  "  Vailima 
Letters"  was  i)ul)lished  N'ovembcr,  1895  i  and  that  01 
"Letters  to  His  Family  and  Friends,"  November,  1899. 


5^^3    - 
A3 

V.  I 

PREFATORY  NOTE 

In  this  edition  the  two  series  of  Letters  previously 
published  (Vailima  Letters  and  Letters  to  his 
Family  and  Friends)  are  reprinted  with  some 
additions  of  matter  and  corrections  of  date:  a 
hundred  and  fifty  new  Letters  {besides  four  from 
Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson)  are  added  and  the  whole 
are  arranged  in  a  single  chronological  series. 
The  Introductions,  general  and  sectional,  have 
been  revised  and  fresh  matter  added  in  the  Notes. 
New  Letters  are  marked  in  the  Tables  of  Contents 
with  an  asterisk. 


16S2t>8n 


CONTENTS 

Asterisks  I*'  denote  new  Letters 

VKGE 

Introduction xv 

I.— STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 
TRAVELS   AND   EXCURSIONS 

Introductory i 

Letters — 

*To  Thomas  Stevenson        13 

*To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson        14 

To  the  Same 16 

To  the  Same    ; 19 

To  the  Same 21 

To  the  Same 23 

*To  the  Same 27 

To  Mrs.  Churchill  Babington 34 

To  Alison  Cunningham 37 

To  Charles  Baxter 3^ 

To  the  Same 4° 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 42 

To  the  Same 44 

To  the  Same 45 

To  Thomas  Stevenson        49 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson   .     .  ' 5^ 

*To  Charles  Baxter 53 

*To  the  Same 57 

To  the  Same 61 

vii 


viii        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON 

II.-STUDENT  DAYS— Continued 
NEW   FRIENDSHIPS— ORDERED   SOUTH 

PAGE 

Introductory      63 

Letters — 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 66 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell 67 

To  the  Same 68 

To  the  Same 71 

To  the  Same 74 

*To  the  Same 78 

*To  the  Same 81 

To  the  Same 84 

To  the  Same .88 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 90 

*To  the  Same 91 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell 92 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 96 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell 98 

To  the  Same 99 

*To  the  Same 102 

♦To  Charles  Baxter 106 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell 109 

*To  the  Same iii 

*To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 113 

To  the  Same 115 

To  the  Same 117 

♦To  the  Same 119 

To  Mrs.  Sitwe'' 121 

.♦To  the  Same , 123 

♦To  the  Same 125 

♦To  Sidney  Colvin 126 

♦To  the  Same 127 

♦To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 128 


CONTENTS  ix 

Letters — (continued)  page 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 130 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 132 

*To  Thomas  Stevenson 134 

*  To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson   .' 135 

*To  Thomas  Stevenson 136 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell 138 

*To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 140 

*To  the  Same .  141 

*To  the  Same 142 

*To  the  Same 142 

To  the  Same i44 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell i45 

III.— STUDENT  BAYS— Concluded 
HOME    AGAIN -LITERATURE   AND    LAW 

Introductory      i47 

Letters — 

*To  Sidney  Colvin ,     .  149 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 150 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 152 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 152 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 155 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell i57 

*To  the  Same 160 

*To  the  Same 164 

*To  the  Same 167 

*To  Sidney  Colvin .  168 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell 169 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 169 

*To  the  Same 172 

*To  Mrs.  Sitwell i73 

*To  the  Same 178 


X  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON 

Letters — (continued)  ,;^ck 

To  the  Same i8o 

*To  the  Same 182 

♦To  the  Same 184 

♦To  the  Same 187 

♦To  the  Same 188 

♦To  Sidney  Colvin 189 

♦To  Mrs.  Sitwell 190 

To  the  Same 194 

To  the  Same 198 

♦To  the  Same 200 

To  Sidney  Colvin 202 

♦To  Mrs.  Sitwell 203 

♦To  Sidney  Colvin 205 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 207 

To  Sidney  Colvin 209 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 210 

To  the  Same 211 

To  the  Same 212 

To  the  Same 214 

♦To  Sidney  Colvin 215 

♦To  the  Same 216 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 218 

To  the  Same 219 

♦To  the  Same 220 

IV.-ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR 
EDINBURGH— PARIS— FONTAINEBLEAU 

Introductory      221 

Letters — 

♦To  Sidney  Colvin 226 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 227 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 228 


CONTENTS  xi 

Letters — (continued)              _  page 

*To  the  Same 229 

To  Sidney  Colvin 231 

To  Charles  Baxter 235 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 237 

To  the  Same 238 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 239 

*To  the  Same 241 

To  Mrs.  de  Mattos 242 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 243 

To  Sidney  Colvin 244 

To  the  Same 245 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 246 

To  W.  E.  Henley 248 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 249 

To  Sidney  Colvin 250 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 251 

To  A.  Patchett  Martin       253 

To  the  Same 254 

To  Sidney  Colvin 257 

To  the  Same 258 

*To  Thomas  Stevenson        259 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson       261 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 262 

To  the  Same 262 

To  W.  E.  Henley 264 

To  Charles  Baxter 264 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 265 

To  W.  E.  Henley 266 

To  Edmund  Gosse 267 

To  W.  E.  Henley 270 

*To  Miss  Jane  Balfour 272 

To  Edmund  Gosse 273 

To  Sidney  Colvin 274 

To  Edmund  Gosse 275 


xii  LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON 


V— THK  AMAT  F.rR  EMIGRANT 

S.S.    Z)£F0A^//1— MONTEREY  AND   SAN 
FRANCISCO— MARRIAGE 

PAGE 

Introductory      278 

Letters — 

To  Sidney  Colvin 281 

To  the  Same 282 

To  W.  E.  Henley 284 

To  Sidney  Colvin 286 

To  the  Same 287 

To  Edmund  Gosse 288 

To  W.  E.  Henley 290 

To  the  Same 291 

To  Sidney  Colvin 294 

To  P.  G.  Hamerton       295 

To  Edmund  Gosse ^ 296 

To  Sidney  Colvin 298 

To  Edmund  Gosse 299 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 302 

*To  W.  E.  Henley 304 

To  Sidney  Colvin 307 

To  the  Same 308 

*To  W.  E.  Henley 312 

*To  the  Same 313 

To  Sidney  Colvin 315 

*To  Edmund  Gosse 317 

To  Charles  Baxter 320 

♦To  Professor  Mciklcjohn 321 

To  W.  E.  Henley 324 

*To  Sidney  Colvin 326 

To  the  Same 329 

*To  J.  W.  Ferrier       329 


CONTENTS  xiii 

Letters — {continued)  page 

To  Edmund  Gosse 33^ 

To  Dr.  W.  Bamford 332 

To  Sidney  Colvin 333 

To  the  Same 334 

To  the  Same 335 

To  C.  W.  Stoddard        33^ 

To  Sidney  Colvin 337 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  circumstances  which  have  made  me  respon- 
sible for  selecting  and  editing  the  correspond- 
ence of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  are  the  follow- 
ing. He  was  for  many  years  my  closest  friend.  We 
first  met  in  1873,  when  he  was  in  his  twenty-third 
year  and  I  in  my  twenty-ninth,  at  the  place  and  in 
the  manner  mentioned  at  page  63  of  this  volume. 
It  was  my  good  fortune  then  to  be  of  use  to  him, 
partly  by  such  technical  hints  as  even  the  most  brill- 
iant beginner  may  take  from  an  older  hand,  partly 
by  recommending  him  to  editors — first,  if  I  remem- 
ber right,  to  Mr.  Hamerton  and  Mr.  Richmond 
Seeley,  of  the  Portfolio,  then  in  succession  to  Mr. 
George  Grove  (Macmillan's  Magazine),  Mr.  Leslie 
Stephen  (Cornhill),  and  Dr.  Appleton  (the  Academy); 
and  somewhat,  lastly,  by  helping  to  raise  him  in  the 
estimation  of  parents  who  loved  but  for  the  moment 
failed  to  understand  him.  It  belonged  to  the  rich- 
ness of  his  nature  to  repay  in  all  things  much  for 
little,  eKaTOfi^oL  evvea^ouov,  and  from  these  early 
relations  sprang  the  affection  and  confidence,  to  me 
inestimable,  of  which  the  following  correspondence 
bears  evidence. 

One  day  in  the  autumn  of  1888,  in  the  island  of 
Tahiti,  during  an  illness  which  he  supposed  might  be 
his  last,  Stevenson  put  into  the  hands  of  his  stepson, 

XV 


xvi         LETIKRS   OK   S  rKVKNSON 

Mr.  Lloyd  Osbournc,  a  scaled  paper  with  a  request 
that  it  might  be  opened  after  his  death.  lie  re- 
covered, and  had  strength  enough  to  enjoy  six  years 
more  of  active  life  and  work  in  the  Pacific  Islands. 
When  the  end  came,  the  paper  was  opened  and  found 
to  contain,  among  other  things,  the  expression  of  his 
wish  that  I  should  prepare  for  publication  'a  selec- 
tion of  his  letters  and  a  sketch  of  his  life.'  I  had  al- 
ready, in  1892,  when  he  was  anxious — needlessly,  as 
it  turned  out — as  to  the  provision  he  might  be  able 
to  leave  for  his  family,  received  from  him  a  sugges- 
tion that  'some  kind  of  a  book'  might  be  made  out 
of  the  monthly  journal-letters  which  he  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  writing  me  from  Samoa;  letters  begun 
at  first  with  no  thought  of  publication  and  simply 
in  order  to  maintain  our  intimacy,  so  far  as  might  be, 
undiminished  by  separation.  This  part  of  his  wishes 
I  was  able  to  carry  out  promptly,  and  the  result  ap- 
peared under  the  title  Vailima  Letters  in  the  autumn 
following  his  death  (1895).  Lack  of  leisure  delayed 
the  execution  of  the  remaining  part.  For  one  thing, 
the  body  of  correspondence  which  came  in  from 
various  quarters  turned  out  much  larger  than  had 
been  anticipated.  He  did  not  love  writing  letters, 
and  will  be  found  somewhere  in  the  following  pages 
referring  to  himself  as  one  'essentially  and  originally 
incapable  of  the  art  epistolary.'  That  he  was  a  bad 
correspondent  had  come  to  be  an  accepted  view 
among  his  friends;  but  in  truth  it  was  only  during 
one  period  of  his  life  that  he  at  all  deserved  such  a 
reproach.^     At  other  times,  as  became  apparent  after 

'  From  1876  to  1879 — see  below,  vol.  i.  section  iv. 


INTRODUCTION  xvil 

his  death,  he  had  shown  a  degree  of  industry  and 
spirit  in  letter-writing  extraordinary  considering  his 
health  and  his  occupations.     It  was  indeed  he  and 
not  his  friends,  as  will  abundantly  appear  in  the 
course  of  these  volumes,  who  oftenest  had  cause  to 
complain    of    answers    neglected    or    delayed.  ^    His 
letters,  it  is  true,  were  often  the  most  informal  in  the 
world,'  and  he  generally  neglected  to -date  them,  a 
habit  which  is  the  despair  of  editors;  but  after  his 
own  whim  and  fashion  he  wrote  a  vast  number,  so 
that  the  work  of  sifting,  copying,  and  arranging  was 
long  and  laborious.     It  was  not  until  the  autumn 
of  1899  that  the  Letters  to  His  Family  and  Friends 
were  ready  for  publication,  and  in  the  meantime 
the  task  of  writing  the  Life  had  been  taken  over  by 
his  cousin  and  my  friend,  Mr.  Graham  Balfour,  who 
completed  it  two  years  later. 

"In  considering  the  scale  and  plan  on  which  my 
friend's  instruction  should  be  carried  out"  (I  quote, 
with  the  change  of  a  word  or  two,  from  my  Introduc- 
tion of  1899),  "it  seemed  necessary  to  take  into  ac- 
count, not  his  own  always  modest  opinion  of  himself, 
but  the  place  which  he  seemed  likely  to  take  ulti- 
mately in  the  world's  regard.     The  four  or  five  years 
following  the  death  of  a  writer  much  applauded  m 
his  lifetime  are  generally  the  years  when  the  decline 
of  his  reputation  begins,   if  it  is  going  to  suffer  de- 
cHne  at  all.     At  present,  certainly,  Stevenson's  name 
seems  in  no  danger  of  going  down.     On  the  stream 
of  daily  literary  reference  and  allusion  it  floats  more 
actively  than  ever.     In  another  sense  its  vitality  is 
confirmed  by  the  material  test  of  continued  sales 


xviii       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON 

and  of  the  market.  Since  we  have  lost  him  other 
writers,  whose  beginnings  he  watched  with  sym- 
pathetic interest,  have  come  to  fill  a  greater  immedi- 
ate place  in  public  attention;  but  none  has  exercised 
Stevenson's  peculiar  and  personal  power  to  charm, 
to  attach,  and  to  inspirit.  By  his  study  of  perfection 
in  form  and  style — equalities  for  which  his  country- 
men in  generai  have  been  apt  to  care  little — he  might 
seem  destined  to  give  pleasure  chiefly  to  the  fastidious 
and  the  artistically  minded.  But  as  to  its  matter, 
the  main  appeal  of  his  work  is  not  to  any  mental 
tastes  and  fashions  of  the  few;  it  is  rather  to  universal, 
hereditary  instincts,  to  the  primitive  sources  of  im- 
aginative excitement  and  entertainment  in  the  race. 

"The  voice  of  the  advocalus  diaboli  has  been  heard 
against  him,  as  it  is  right  and  proper  that  it  should  be 
heard  against  any  man  before  his  reputation  can  be 
held  fully  established.  One  such  advocate  in  this 
country  has  thought  to  dispose  of  him  by  the  charge 
of  'externality.'  But  the  reader  who  remembers 
things  like  the  sea-frenzy  of  Gordon  Darnaway,  or 
the  dialogue  of  Markheim  with  his  other  self  in  the 
house  of  murder,  or  the  re-baptism  of  the  spirit  of 
Seraphina  in  the  forest  dews,  or  the  failure  of  Herrick 
to  find  in  the  waters  of  the  island  lagoon  a  last  release 
from  dishonour,  or  the  death  of  Goguelat,  or  the 
appeal  of  Kirstie  Elliot  in  the  midnight  chamber — 
such  a  reader  can  only  smile  at  a  criticism  like  this 
and  put  it  by.  These  and  a  score  of  other  passages 
breathe  the  essential  poetry  and  significance  of  things 
as  they  reveal  themselves  to  true  masters  only:  they 
are  instinct  at  once  with  the  morality  and  the  romance 


INTRODUCTION  xlx 

which  He  deep  together  at  the  soul  of  nature  and  ex- 
perience. Not  in  vain  had  Stevenson  read  the  lesson 
of  the  Lantern-Bearers,  and  hearkened  to  the  music 
of  the  pipes  of  Pan.  He  was  feeling  his  way  all  his 
life  towards  a  fuller  mastery  of  his  means,  preferring 
always  to  leave  unexpressed  what  he  felt  that  he  could 
not  express  adequately;  and  in  much  of  his  work  was 
content  merely  to  amuse  himself  and  others.  But 
even  when  he  is  playing  most  fancifully  with  his  art 
and  his  readers,  as  in  the  shudders,  tempered  with 
laughter,  of  the  Suicide  Club,  or  the  airy  sentimental 
comedy  of  Providence  and  the  Guitar,  or  the  school- 
boy historical  inventions  of  Dickon  Crookback  and 
the  old  sailor  Arblaster,  a  writer  of  his  quality  can- 
not help  striking  notes  from  the  heart  of  life  and 
the  inwardness  of  things  deeper  than  will  ever  be 
struck,  or  even  apprehended,  by  another  who  labours, 
with  never  a  smile  either  of  his  own  or  of  his  reader's, 
upon  the  most  solemn  enterprises  of  realistic  fiction, 
but  is  born  without  the  magician's  touch  and  in- 
sight. 

"Another  advocate  on  the  same  side,  in  the  United 
States,  has  made  much  of  the  supposed  dependence 
of  this  author  on  his  models,  and  classed  him  among 
writers  whose  inspiration  is  imitative  and  second- 
hand. But  this  is  to  be  quite  misled  by  the  well- 
known  passage  of  Stevenson's  own,  in  which  he 
speaks  of  himself  as  having  in  his  prentice  years 
played  the  'sedulous  ape'  to  many  writers  of  different 
styles  and  periods.  In  doing  this  he  was  not  seeking 
inspiration,  but  simply  practising  the  use  of  the  tools 
which  were  to  help  him  to  express  his  own  inspira- 


XX  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON 

tions.  Truly  he  was  always  much  of  a  reader:  but  it 
was  life,  not  books,  that  always  in  the  first  degree 
allured  and  taught  hinx. 

'  He  loved  of  life  the  myriad  sides, 
Pain,  prayer,  or  pleasure,  act  or  sleep. 
As  wallowing  narwhals  love  the  deep ' — 

so  with  just  self-knowledge  he  wrote  of  himself;  and 
the  books  which  he  most  cared  for  and  lived  with 
were  those  of  which  the  writers  seemed — to  quote 
again  a  phrase  of  his  own — to  have  been  'eaves- 
dropping at  the  door  of  his  heart' :  those  which  told 
of  experiences  or  cravings  after  experience,  pains, 
pleasures,  or  conflicts  of  the  spirit,  which  in  the  eager- 
ness of  youthful  living  and  thinking  had  already  been 
his  own.  No  man,  in  fact,  was  ever  less  inclined  to 
take  anything  at  second-hand.  The  root  of  all  origi- 
nality was  in  him,  in  the  shape  of  an  extreme  natural 
vividness  of  perception,  imagination,  and  feeling. 
An  instinctive  and  inbred  unwillingness  to  accept  the 
accepted  and  conform  to  the  conventional  was  of  the 
essence  of  his  character,  whether  in  life  or  art,  and 
was  a  source  to  him  both  of  strength  and  weakness. 
He  would  not  follow  a  general  rule— least  of  all  if  it 
was  a  prudential  rule — of  conduct  unless  he  was  clear 
that  it  was  right  according  to  his  private  conscience; 
nor  would  he  join,  in  youth,  in  the  ordinary  social 
amusements  of  his  class  when  he  had  once  found  out 
that  they  did  not  amuse  him;  nor  wear  their  clothes 
if  he  could  not  feel  at  ease  and  be  himself  in  them; 
nor  use,  whether  in  speech  or  writing,  any  trite  or 
inanimate  form  of  words  that  did  not  faithfullv  and 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

livingly  express  his  thought.  A  readier  acceptance 
ahke  of  current  usages  and  current  phrases  might 
have  been  better  for  him,  but  was  simply  not  in  his 
nature.  No  reader  of  this  book  will  close  it,  I  am 
sure,  without  feeling  that  he  has  been  throughout  in 
the  company  of  a  spirit  various  indeed  and  many- 
mooded,  but  profoundly  sincere  and  real.  Ways  that 
in  another  might  easily  have  been  mere  signs  of  affec- 
tation were  in  him  the  true  expression  of  a  nature 
ten  times  more  spontaneously  itself  and  individually 
alive  than  that  of  others.  Self-consciousness,  in  many 
characters  that  possess  it,  deflects  and  falsifies  con- 
duct; and  so  does  the  dramatic  instinct.  Stevenson 
was  self-conscious  in  a  high  degree,  but  only  as  a 
part  of  his  general  activity  of  mind;  only  in  so  far  as 
he  could  not  help  being  an  extremely  intelligent 
spectator  of  his  own  doings  and  feelings:  these  them- 
selves came  from  springs  of  character  and  impulse 
much  too  deep  and  strong  to  be  diverted.  He  loved 
also,  with  a  child's  or  actor's  gusto,  to  play  a  part  and 
make  a  drama  out  of  life:  but  the  part  was  always  for 
the  moment  his  very  own:  he  had  it  not  in  him  to  pose 
for  anything  but  what  he  truly  was. 

"When  a  man  so  constituted  had  once  mastered 
his  craft  of  letters,  he  might  take  up  whatever  instru- 
ment he  pleased  with  the  instinctive  and  just  confi- 
dence that  he  would  play  upon  it  to  a  tune  and  with 
a  manner  of  his  own.  This  is  indeed  the  true  mark 
and  test  of  his  originality.  He  has  no  need  to  be, 
or  to  seem,  especially  original  in  the  form  and  mode 
of  Hterature  which  he  attempts.  By  his  choice  o;' 
these  be  may  at  any  time  give  himself  and  his  '-eadei 


xxii        LETTERS  OF   S  1  EVENSON 

the  pleasure  of  rccallinj^,  like  a  familiar  air,  some 
strain  of  literary  association;  but  in  so  doing  he  only 
adds  a  secondary  charm  to  his  work;  the  vision,  the 
temperament,  the  mode  of  conceiving  and  handling, 
are  in  every  case  personal  to  himself.  He  may  try 
his  hand  in  youth  at  a  Sentimental  Journey,  but 
R.  L.  S.  cannot  choose  but  be  at  the  opposite  pole 
of  human  character  and  feeling  from  Laurence 
Sterne.  In  tales  of  mystery,  allegorical  or  other,  he 
may  bear  in  mind  the  precedent  of  Edgar  Poe,  and 
yet  there  is  nothing  in  style  and  temper  much  wider 
apart  than  Markheim  and  Jekyll  and  Hyde  arc  from 
the  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  or  William  Wilson. 
He  may  set  out  to  tell  a  pirate  story  for  boys  'exactly 
in  the  ancient  way,'  and  it  will  come  from  him  not 
in  the  ancient  way  at  all,  but  re-minted;  marked  with 
a  sharpness  and  saliency  in  the  characters,  a  private 
stamp  of  buccaneering  ferocity  combined  with  smil- 
ing humour,  an  energy  of  vision  and  happy  vividness 
of  presentment,  which  are  shiningly  his  own.  An- 
other time,  he  may  desert  the  paths  of  Kingston  and 
Ballantyne  for  those  of  vSir  Walter  Scott;  but  litera- 
ture presents  few  stronger  contrasts  than  between  any 
scene  of  Waverley  or  Redgauntlet  and  any  scene  of 
the  Master  of  Ballantrae  or  Catriona,  whether  in  their 
strength  or  weakness:  and  it  is  the  most  loyal  lovers 
of  the  older  master  who  take  the  greatest  pleasure 
in  reading  the  work  of  the  younger,  so  much  less 
opulently  gifted  as  is  probable — though  we  must 
remember  that  Stevenson  died  at  the  age  when  Scott 
wrote  Waverley — so  infinitely  more  careful  of  his  gift. 
Stevenson  may  even  blow  upon  the  pipe  of  Burns, 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

and  yet  his  tune  will  be  no  echo,  but  one  which  utters 
the  heart  and  mind  of  a  Scots  maker  who  has  his  own 
outlook  on  life,  his  own  special  and  profitable  vein  of 
smiling  or  satirical  contemplation. 

"  Not  by  reason,  then,  of '  externality,'  for  sure,  nor 
yet  of  imitativeness,  will  this  writer  lose  his  hold  on 
the  attention  and  regard  of  his  countrymen.  The 
debate,  before  his  place  in  literature  is  settled,  must 
rather  turn  on  other  points:  as  whether  the  genial 
essayist  and  egoist  or  the  romantic  inventor  and 
narrator  was  the  stronger  in  him — whether  the  Mon- 
taigne and  Pepys  elements  prevailed  in  his  literary 
composition  or  the  Scott  and  Dumas  elements— a 
question  indeed  which  among  those  who  care  for 
him  most  has  always  been  at  issue.  Or  again,  what 
degree  of  true  inspiring  and  illuminating  power  be- 
longs to  the  gospel,  or  gospels,  airily  encouraging  or 
gravely  didactic,  which  are  set  forth  in  the  essays  with 
so  captivating  a  grace  ?  Or  whether  in  romance  and 
tale  he  had  a  power  of  inventing  and  constructing  a 
whole  fable  comparable  to  his  admitted  power  of  con- 
ceiving and  presenting  single  scenes  and  situations  in 
a  manner  which  stamps  them  indelibly  on  the  read- 
er's mind?  And  whether  his  figures  are  sustained 
continuously  by  the  true  spontaneous  breath  of  crea- 
tion, or  are  but  transitorily  animated  at  happy  mo- 
ments by  flashes  of  spiritual  and  dramatic  insight, 
aided  by  the  conscious  devices  of  his  singularly  adroit 
and  spirited  art?  These  are  questions  which  no 
criticism  but  that  of  time  can  solve.  To  contend, 
as  some  do,  that  strong  creative  impulse  and  so  keen 
an  artistic  self-consciousness  as  Stevenson's  was  can- 


xxiv       LK'l'lKRS   OF   Sri':VKNSON 

not  exist  together,  is  quite  idle.  The  truth,  of  course, 
is  that  the  deep-seated  energies  of  imaginative  crea- 
tion are  found  sometimes  in  coml^ination,  and  some- 
times not  in  combination,  with  an  artistic  intelHgence 
thus  keenly  conscious  of  its  own  purpose  and  watch- 
ful of  its  own  working. 

"  Once  more,  it  may  be  questioned  whether,  among 
the  many  varieties  of  work  which  Stevenson  has  left, 
all  distinguished  by  a  grace  and  precision  of  work- 
manship which  are  the  rarest  qualities  in  English  art, 
there  are  any  which  can  be  pointed  to  as  absolute 
masterpieces,  such  as  the  future  cannot  be  expected 
to  let  die.  Let  the  future  decide.  What  is  certain 
is  that  posterity  must  either  be  very  well  or  very  ill 
occupied  if  it  can  consent  to  give  up  so  much  sound 
entertainment,  and  better  than  entertainment,  as  this 
writer  afforded  his  contemporaries.  In  the  mean- 
time, among  judicious  readers  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic,  Stevenson  stands,  1  think  it  may  safely  be 
sajd,  as  a  true  master  of  English  prose;  scarcely  sur- 
passed for  the  union  of  lenity  and  lucidity  with  sug- 
gestive pregnancy  and  poetic  animation;  for  harmony 
of  cadence  and  the  well-knit  structure  of  sentences; 
and  for  the  art  of  imparting  to  words  the  vital  quality 
of  things,  and  making  them  con\cy  the  precise — 
sometimes,  let  it  be  granted,  the  too  curiously  precise 
— expression  of  the  very  shade  and  colour  of  the 
thought,  feeling,  or  vision  in  his  mind.  He  stands, 
moreover,  as  the  writer  who,  in  the  last  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  has  handled  with  the  most  of 
freshness  and  inspiriting  power  the  widest  range  of 
established  literary  forms— the  moral,  critical,  and 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

personal  essay,  travels  sentimental  and  other,  ro- 
mances and  short  tales  both  historical  and  modern, 
parables  and  tales  of  mystery,  boys'  stories  of  adven- 
ture, memoirs— nor  let  lyrical  and  meditative  verse 
both  English  and  Scottish,  and  especially  nursery 
verse,  a  new  vein  for  genius  to  work  in,  be  forgotten. 
To  some  of  these  forms  Stevenson  gave  quite  new 
life;  through  all  alike  he  expressed  vividly  an  ex- 
tremely personal  way  of  seeing  and  being,  a  sense  of 
nature  and  romance,  of  the  aspects  of  human  exis- 
tence and  problems  of  human  conduct,  which  was 
essentially  his  own.  And  in  so  doing  he  contrived  to 
make  friends  and  even  lovers  of  his  readers.  Those 
whom  he  attracts  at  all  (and  there  is  no  writer  who 
attracts  every  one)  are  drawn  to  him  over  and  over 
again,  finding  familiarity  not  lessen  but  increase  the 
charm  of  his  work,  and  desiring  ever  closer  intimacy 
with  the  spirit  and  personality  which  they  divine 

behind  it. 

"  As  to  the  fitting  scale,  then,  on  which  to  treat  the 
memory  of  a  man  who  fills  five  years  after  his  death 
such  a  place  as  this  in  the  general  regard,  and  who 
has  desired  that  a  selection  from  his  letters  shall  be 
made  public,  the  word  'selection'  has  evidently  to 
be  given  a  pretty  liberal  interpretation.  Readers,  it 
must  be  supposed,  will  scarce  be  content  without  the 
opportunity  of  a  fairly  ample  intercourse  with  such  a 
man  as  he  was  accustomed  to  reveal  himself  in  wri- 
ting to  his  familiars.  In  choosing  from  among  the 
material  before  me"  (I  still  quote  from  the  Introduc- 
tion of  1899),  "I  have  used  the  best  discretion  that  I 
could.     Stevenson's  feelings  and  relations  through- 


xxvi       LKl'lKRS   OF   STEVENSON 

out  life  were  in  almost  all  directions  so  warm  and 
kindly,  that  very  little  had  to  be  suppressed  from  fear 
of  giving  pain/  On  the  other  hand,  he  drew  people 
towards  him  with  so  much  confidence  and  aflection, 
and  met  their  openness  with  so  much  of  his  own, 
that  an  editor  could  not  but  feel  the  frequent  risk  of 
inviting  readers  to  trespass  too  far  on  purely  private 
affairs  and  feelings,  including  those  of  the  living. 
This  was  a  point  upon  which  in  his  lifetime  he  felt 
strongly.  That  excellent  critic,  Mr.  Walter  Raleigh, 
has  noticed,  as  one  of  the  merits  of  Stevenson's 
personal  essays  and  accounts  of  travel,  that  few  men 
have  written  more  or  more  attractively  of  themselves 
without  ever  taking  the  public  unduly  into  familiarity 
or  overstepping  proper  bounds  of  reticence.  Public 
prying  into  private  lives,  the  propagation  of  gossip  by 
the  press,  and  printing  of  private  letters  during  the 
writer's  lifetime,  were  things  he  hated.  Once,  indeed, 
he  very  superfluously  gave  himself  a  dangerous  cold 
by  dancing  before  a  bonfire  in  his  garden  at  the  news 
of  a  'society'  editor  having  been  committed  to  prison; 
and  the  only  approach  to  a  difference  he  ever  had 
with  one  of  his  lifelong  friends  arose  from  the  publica- 
tion, without  permission,  of  one  of  his  letters  written 
during  his  first  Pacific  voyage. 

'  The  [X)int  was  one  on  which  Stevenson  himself  felt  strongly. 
In  a  letter  of  instructions  to  his  wife  found  among  his  posthumous 
papers  he  ^v^ites:  'It  is  never  worth  while  to  inflict  pain  upon  a 
snail  for  any  literary  purpose;  and  where  events  mav  appear  to  he 
favourable  to  me  and  contrary'  to  others,  I  would  rather  be  mis- 
understood than  cause  a  pang  to  any  one  whom  I  have  known,  far 
less  whom  I  have  loved.'  Whether  an  editor  or  biotn^apher  would 
be  justifiefl  in  carrying  out  this  principle  to  the  full  may  perhaps 
be  doubted. 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

"How  far,  then,  must  I  regard  his  instructions 
about  publication  as  authorising  me  to  go  after  his 
death  beyond  the  limits  which  he  had  been  so  careful 
in  observing  and  desiring  others  to  observe  in  life? 
How  much  may  now  fairly  become  public  of  that 
which  had  been  held  sacred  and  hitherto  private 
among  his  friends?     To  cut  out  all  that  is  strictly 
personal  and  intimate  were  to  leave  his  story  untold 
and  half  the  charm  of  his  character  unrevealed:  to  put 
in  too  much  were  to  break  all  bonds  of  that  privacy 
which  he  so  carefully  regarded  while  he  lived,     I 
know  not  if  I  have  at  all  been  able  to  hit  the  mean, 
and  to  succeed  in  making  these  letters,  as  it  has  been 
my  object  to  make  them,  present,  without  offence  or 
intrusion,  a  just,  a  living,  and  proportionate  picture 
of  the  man  as  far  as  they  will  yield  it.     There  is  one 
respect  in  which  his  own  practice  and  principle  has 
had  to  be  in  some  degree  violated,  if  the  work  was 
to  be  done  at  all.     Except  in  the  single  case  of  the 
essay  Ordered  South,  he  would  never  in  writing  for 
the  pubhc  adopt  the  invalid  point  of  view,  or  invite 
any  attention  to  his  infirmities.     'To  me,'  he  says, 
'the  medicine  bottles  on  my  chimney  and  the  blood 
on  my  handkerchief  are  accidents;  they  do  not  colour 
my  view  of  hfe;  and  I  should  think  myself  a  trifler  and 
in  bad  taste  if  I  introduced  the  world  to  these  unim- 
portant privacies.'     But  from  his  letters  to  his  family 
and  friends  these  matters  could  not  possibly  be  left 
out.     The  tale  of  his  life,  in  the  years  when  he  was 
most  of  a  correspondent,  was  in  truth  a  tale  of  daily 
and  nightly  battle  against  weakness  and  physical  dis- 
tress and  danger.     To  those  who  loved  him,  the  in- 


xxviii     LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON 

cidcnts  of  this  battle  were  communicated,  sometimes 
gravely,  sometimes  laughingly.  I  have  greatly  cut 
down  such  bulletins,  but  could  not  possibly  omit  them 
altogether." 

Twelve  years  have  passed  since  the  above  words 
were  written,  and  the  estimate  then  expressed  of 
Stevenson's  qualities  as  a  writer,  and  of  the  place 
which  he  seemed  likely  to  maintain  in  the  afTections 
of  English  readers  all  the  world  over,  has  been  amply 
confirmed  by  the  lapse  of  time.  The  sale  of  his  works 
keeps  increasing  rather  than  diminishing;  editions 
keep  multiplying;  a  new  generation  of  readers  has 
found  life  and  letters,  nature  and  human  nature, 
touched  by  him  at  so  many  points  with  so  vivifying 
and  illuminating  a  charm  that  it  has  become  scarcely 
possible  to  take  up  any  newspaper  or  magazine  and 
not  find  some  reference  to  his  work  and  name.  Both 
series  of  letters — even  one  mainly  concerned,  as  the 
Vailima  Letters  are,  with  matters  of  interest  both 
remote  and  transitory — have  been  read  in  edition 
after  edition:  and  readers  have  been  and  are  con- 
tinually asking  for  more.  The  time  is  thought  to 
have  come  for  a  new  and  definitive  edition,  in  which 
the  two  series  of  letters  already  published  shall  be 
thrown  into  one,  and  as  much  new  material  added 
as  can  be  found  suitable.  The  task  of  carrying  out 
this  scheme  has  again  fallen  upon  me.  The  present 
edition  will  be  found  to  constitute  in  effect  a  nearly 
complete  epistolary  autobiography.  It  contains  no 
less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  letters  hitherto  unpub- 
lished. They  date  from  all  periods  of  Stevenson's 
life,  those  written  in  the  brilliant  and  troubled  days 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

of  his  youth  predominating,  and  giving  a  picture,  per- 
haps unique  in  its  kind,  of  a  character  and  talent  in 
the  making.  Many  of  the  letters  now  printed  were 
put  aside  twelve  years  ago  simply  from  want  of  space. 
Lapse  of  time  has  enabled  some  to  be  given  now  that 
could  not  discreetly  have  been  given  then;  some  are 
addressed  to  correspondents  who  have  only  lately 
placed  them  at  my  disposal.  Much,  of  course,  re- 
mains and  ought  to  remain  unprinted.  Some  of  the 
outpourings  of  the  early  time  are  too  sacred  and 
intimate  for  publicity.  Many  of  the  letters  of  his 
maturer  years  are  dry  business  letters  of  no  general 
interest:  many  others  are  mere  scraps  tossed  in  jest 
to  his  familiars  and  full  of  catchwords  and  code- 
words current  in  their  talk  but  meaningless  to  out- 
siders. Above  all,  many  have  to  be  omitted  because 
they  deal  with  the  intimate  affairs  of  private  persons. 
Stevenson  has  been  sometimes  called  an  egoist,  as 
though  he  had  been  one  in  the  practical  sense  as  well 
as  in  the  sense  of  taking  a  lively  interest  in  his  own 
moods  and  doings.  Nothing  can  be  more  untrue. 
The  letters  printed"  in  these  volumes  are  indeed  for 
the  most  part  about  himself:  but  it  was  of  himself 
that  his  correspondents  of  all  things  most  cared  to 
hear.  If  the  letters  concerned  with  the  private  af- 
fairs of  other  people  could  be  printed,  as  of  course 
they  cannot,  the  balance  would  come  more  than  even. 
We  should  see  him  throwing  himself  with  sympathetic 
ardour  and  without  thought  of  self  into  the  cares  and 
interests  of  his  correspondents,  and  should  learn  to 
recognise  him  as  having  been  truly  the  helper  in 
many  a  relation  where  he  might  naturally  have  been 
taken  for  the  person  helped. 


XXX        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON 

As  to  the  form  in  which  the  letters  are  now  pre- 
sented, they  fill  four  volumes  (purchaseable  either 
as  a  set  or  separately)  of  the  size  and  style  which 
have  of  late  years  been  made  pleasurably  familiar 
to  so  many  readers  by  the  volumes  of  Mt.  Kipling's 
poetry  and  Mr,  Lucas's  essays  and  anthologies.  As 
to  the  text,  it  is  faithful  to  the  original  except  in  so 
far  as  I  have  used  the  editorial  privilege  of  omission 
when  I  thought  it  desirable,  and  as  I  have  not  felt 
myself  bound  to  reproduce  slips  and  oddities,  how- 
ever characteristic,  of  spelling.  In  formal  matters 
like  the  use  of  quote-marks,  italics,  and  so  forth,  I 
have  adopted  a  more  uniform  practice  than  his, 
which  was  very  casual  and  variable. 

In  their  new  guise,  then,  even  more  than  in  the 
old,  and  with  their  increased  number,  the  Stevenson 
Letters  will,  I  hope,  prove  to  many  readers  a  book 
humanly  attractive  and  companionable  beyond  most 
others.  To  some,  perhaps — (from  this  point  I  again 
resume  my  Introduction  of  1899,  but  with  more 
correction  and  abridgment) — to  some,  perhaps,  the 
very  lack  of  art  as  a  correspondent  to  which  Steven- 
son above  pleads  guilty  may  give  the  reading  an 
added  charm  and  flavour.  What  he  could  do  as 
an  artist  in  letters  we  know.  I  remember  Sir  John 
Millais,  a  shrewd  and  very  independent  judge  of 
books,  calling  across  to  me  at  a  dinner-table,  'You 
know  Stevenson,  don't  you?'  and  then  going  on, 
'Well,  I  wish  you  would  tell  him  from  me,  if  he  cares 
to  know,  that  to  my  mind  he  is  the  very  first  of 
living  artists.  T  don't  mean  writers  merely,  but 
painters  and  all  of  us.  Nobody  living  can  see  with 
such  an  eye  as  that  fellow,  and  nobody  is  such  a  mas- 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

ter  of  his  tools.'  But  in  his  letters,  excepting  a  few 
written  in  youth  and  having  more  or  less  the  char- 
acter of  exercises,  and  a  few  in  after  years  which 
were  intended  for  the  public  eye,  Stevenson  the  de- 
liberate artist  is  scarcely  forthcoming  at  all.  He 
does  not  care  a  fig  for  order  or  logical  sequence  or 
congruity,  or  for  striking  a  key  of  expression  and 
keeping  it,  but  becomes  simply  the  most  spontaneous 
and  unstudied  of  human  beings.  He  has  at  his 
command  the  whole  vocabularies  of  the  English  and 
Scottish  languages,  classical  and  slang,  with  good 
stores  of  the  French,  and  tosses  and  tumbles  them 
about  irresponsibly  to  convey  the  impression  or  affec- 
tion, the  mood  or  freak  of  the  moment;  pouring  him- 
self out  in  all  manner  of  rhapsodical  confessions  and 
speculations,  grave  or  gay,  notes  of  observation  and 
criticism,  snatches  of  remembrance  and  autobiog- 
raphy, moralisings  on  matters  uppermost  for  the 
hour  in  his  mind,  comments  on  his  own  work  or  other 
people's,  or  mere  idle  fun  and  foolery. 

By  this  medley  of  moods  and  manners,  Stevenson's 
letters  at  their  best  come  nearer  than  anything  else  to 
the  full-blooded  charm  and  variety  of  his  conversa- 
tion. Nearer,  yet  not  quite  near;  for  it  was  in  com- 
pany only  that  this  genial  spirit  rose  to  his  very  best. 
Few  men  probably  have  had  in  them  such  a  richness 
and  variety  of  human  nature;  and  few  can  ever  have 
been  better  gifted  than  he  was  to  express  the  play 
of  being  that  was  in  him  by  means  of  the  apt,  ex- 
pressive word  and  the  animated  look  and  gesture. 
Divers  et  ondoyant,  in  the  words  of  Montaigne,  be- 
yond other  men,  he  seemed  to  contain  within  himself 


xxxii      LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON 

a  whole  troop  of  singularly  assorted  characters. 
Though  prose  was  his  chosen  medium  of  expression, 
he  was  by  temperament  a  born  poet,  to  whom  the 
world  was  full  of  enchantment  and  of  latent  romance, 
only  waiting  to  take  shape  and  substance  in  the  forms 
of  art.     It  was  his  birthright — 

' to  hear 
The  great  bell  beating  far  and  near — 
The  odd,  unknown,  enchanted  gong 
That  on  the  road  hales  men  along, 

That  from  the  mountain  calls  afar, 
That  lures  the  vessel  from  a  star, 
And  with  a  still,  aerial  sound 
Makes  all  the  earth  enchanted  ground.' 

He  had  not  only  the  poet's  mind  but  the  poet's 
senses:  in  youth  ginger  was  only  too  hot  in  his  mouth, 
and  the  chimes  at  midnight  only  too  favourite  a 
music.  At  the  same  time  he  was  not  less  a  born 
preacher  and  moralist  and  son  of  the  Covenanters 
after  his  fashion.  He  had  about  him,  as  has  been 
said,  little  spirit  of  social  of  other  conformity;  but  an 
active  and  searching  private  conscience  kept  him  for 
ever  calling  in  question  both  the  grounds  of  his  own 
conduct  and  the  validity  of  the  accepted  codes  and 
compromises  of  society.  He  must  try  to  work  out 
a  scheme  of  morality  suitable  to  his  own  case  and 
temperament,  which  found  the  prohibitory  law  of 
Moses  chill  and  uninspiring,  but  in  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount  a  strong  incentive  to  all  those  impulses  of  pity 
and  charity  to  which  his  heart  was  prone.  In  early 
days  his  sense  of  social  injustice  and  the  inequalities 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

of  human  opportunity  made  him  inwardly  much  of 
a  rebel,  who  would  have  embraced  and  acted  on 
theories  of  socialism  or  communism,  could  he  have 
found  any  that  did  not  seem  to  him  at  variance  with 
ineradicable  instincts  of  human  nature.  All  his  life 
the  artist  and  the  moralist  in  him  alike  were  in 
rebellion  against  the  bourgeois  spirit, — against  timid, 
negative,  and  shuffling  substitutes  for  active  and 
courageous  well-doing, — and  declined  to  worship  at 
the  shrine  of  what  he  called  the  bestial  goddesses 
Comfort  and  Respectability.  The  moralist  in  him 
helped  the  artist  by  backing  with  the  force  of  a  highly 
sensitive  conscience  his  instinctive  love  of  perfection 
in  his  work.  The  artist  qualified  the  moralist  by  dis- 
countenancing any  preference  for  the  harsh,  the  sour, 
or  the  self-mortifying  forms  of  virtue,  and  encour- 
aging the  love  for  all  tender  or  heroic,  glowing,  gen- 
erous, and  cheerful  forms. 

Above  all  things,  perhaps,  Stevenson  was  by  in- 
stinct an  adventurer  and  practical  experimentalist  in 
life.  Many  poets  are  content  to  dream,  and  many, 
perhaps  most,  moralists  to  preach:  Stevenson  must 
ever  be  doing  and  undergoing.  He  was  no  senti- 
mentahst,  to  pay  himself  with  fine  feelings  whether 
for  mean  action  or  slack  inaction.  He  had  an  in- 
satiable zest  for  all  experiences,  not  the  pleasurable 
only,  but  including  the  more  harsh  and  biting — those 
that  bring  home  to  a  man  the  pinch  and  sting  of 
existence  as  it  is  realised  by  the  disinherited  of  the 
world,  and  excluding  only  what  he  thought  the  prim, 
the  conveitional,  the  dead-alive,  and  the  cut-and-dry. 


xxxiv     LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON 

On  occasion  the  experimentalist  and  man  of  adven- 
ture in  him  would  enter  into  special  partnership  with 
the  moralist  and  man  of  conscience:  he  was  prone 
to  plunge  into  diflficult  social  passes  and  ethical  di- 
lemmas, which  he  might  sometimes  more  wisely  have 
avoided,  for  the  sake  of  trying  to  behave  in  them  to 
the  utmost  according  to  his  own  personal  sense  of  the 
obligations  of  honour,  duty,  and  kindness.  In  yet 
another  part  of  his  being  he  cherished,  as  his  great 
countryman  Scott  had  done  before  him,  an  intense 
underlying  longing  for  the  life  of  action,  danger  and 
command.  'Action,  Colvin,  action,'  I  remember  his 
crying  eagerly  to  me  with  his  hand  on  my  arm  as 
we  lay  basking  for  his  health's  sake  in  a  boat  off 
the  scented  shores  of  the  Cap  Martin.  Another 
time — this  was  on  his  way  to  a  winter  cure  at  Davos 
— some  friend  had  given  him  General  Hamley's 
Operations  of  War: — 'in  which,'  he  writes  to  his 
father,  '  I  am  drowned  a  thousand  fathoms  deep,  and 
O  that  I  had  been  a  soldier  is  still  my  cry.'  Fortu- 
nately, with  all  these  ardent  and  divers  instincts,  there 
were  present  two  invaluable  gifts  besides:  that  of 
humour,  which  for  all  his  stress  of  being  and  vivid 
consciousness  of  self  saved  him  from  ever  seeing 
himself  for  long  together  out  of  a  just  proportion, 
and  kept  wholesome  laughter  always  ready  at  his 
lips;  and  that  of  a  most  tender  and  loyal  heart,  which 
through  all  his  experiments  and  agitations  made  the 
law  of  kindness  the  one  ruling  law  of  his  life.  In  the 
end,  lack  of  health  determined  his  career,  giving  the 
chief  part  in  his  life  to  the  artist  and  man  of  imagina- 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

tion,  and  keeping  the  man  of  action  a  prisoner  in  the 
sickroom  until,  by  a  singular  turn  of  destiny,  he  was 
able  to  wring  a  real  prolonged  and  romantically  suc- 
cessful adventure  out  of  that  voyage  to  the  Pacific 
which  had  been,  in  its  origin,  the  last  despairing  re- 
source of  the  invalid. 

Again,  it  was  characteristic  of  this  multiple  person- 
ality that  he  never  seemed  to  be  cramped  like  the  rest 
of  us,  at  any  given  time  of  life,  within  the  limits  of  his 
proper  age,  but  to  be  child,  boy,  young  man,  and  old 
man  all  at  once.  There  was  never  a  time  in  his  life 
when  Stevenson  had  to  say  with  St.  Augustine,  'Be- 
hold! my  childhood  is  dead,  but  I  am  alive.'  The 
child  Hved  on  always  in  him,  not  in  memory  only,  but 
in  real  survival,  with  all  its  freshness  of  perception  un- 
impaired, and  none  of  its  play  instincts  in  the  least 
degree  extinguished  or  made  ashamed.  As  for  the 
perennial  boy  in  Stevenson,  that  is  too  apparent  to 
need  remark.  It  was  as  a  boy  for  boys  that  he  wrote 
the  best  known  of  his  books,  Treasure  Island,  and 
with  all  boys  that  he  met,  provided  they  were  really 
boys  and  not  prigs  nor  puppies,  he  was  instantly  and 
delightedly  at  home.  At  the  same  time,  even  when 
I  first  knew  him,  he  showed  already  surprising  occa- 
sional traits  and  glimpses  of  old  sagacity,  of  pre- 
mature life-wisdom  and  experience. 

Once  more,  it  is  said  that  in  every  poet  there  must 
be  something  of  the  woman.  If  to  be  quick  in  sym- 
pathy and  feeling,  ardent  in  attachment,  and  full  of 
pity  for  the  weak  and  suffering,  is  to  be  womanly, 
Stevenson  was  certainly  all  those;  he  was  even  like  a 
woman  in  being  apriSaKpvi,  easily  moved  to  tears  a? 


xxxvi      LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON 

the  touch  of  pity  or  affection,  or  even  at  any  specially 
poignant  impression  of  art  or  beauty.  But  yet,  if 
any  one  word  were  to  be  chosen  for  the  predominant 
quahty  of  his  character  and  example,  I  suppose  that 
word  would  be  manly.  In  his  gentle  and  complying 
nature  there  were  strains  of  iron  tenacity  and  will: 
occasionally  even,  let  it  be  admitted,  of  perversity 
and  Scottish  'thrawnness.'  He  had  both  kinds  of 
physical  courage — the  active,  delighting  in  danger, 
and  the  passive,  unshaken  in  endurance.  In  the 
moral  courage  of  facing  situations  and  consequences, 
of  readiness  to  pay  for  faults  committed,  of  outspoken- 
ness, admitting  no  ambiguous  relations  and  clearing 
away  the  clouds  from  human  intercourse,  I  have  not 
known  his  equal.  The  great  Sir  Walter  himself,  as 
this  book  will  prove,  was  not  more  manfully  free  from 
artistic  jealousy  or  irritability  under  criticism,  or 
more  unfeignedly  inclined  to  exaggerate  the  qualities 
of  other  people's  work  and  to  underrate  those  of  his 
own.  Of  the  humorous  and  engaging  parts  of  vanity 
and  egoism,  which  led  him  to  make  infinite  talk  and 
fun  about  himself,  and  use  his  own  experiences  as  a 
key  for  unlocking  the  confidences  of  others,  Stevenson 
had  plenty;  but  of  the  morose  and  fretful  parts  never 
a  shade.  'A  little  Irish  girl,'  he  wrote  once  during 
a  painful  crisis  of  his  life,  'is  now  reading  my  book 
aloud  to  her  sister  at  my  elbow;  they  chuckle,  and 
I  feel  flattered.— Yours,  R.  L.  S.  P.  S.  Now  they 
yawn,  and  I  am  indifferent.  Such  a  wisely  conceived 
thing  is  vanity.'  If  only  vanity  so  conceived  were 
commoner!  And  whatever  might  be  the  abstract 
and  philosophical  value  of  that  somewhat  grimly  sto- 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii* 

ical  conception  of  the  universe,  of  conduct  and  duty, 
at  which  in  mature  years  he  had  arrived,  want  of 
manhness  is  certainly  not  its  fault.  Take  the  kind  of 
maxims  which  he  was  accustomed  to  forge  for  his 
own  guidance: — 'Acts  may  be  forgiven;  not  even 
God  can  forgive  the  hanger-back.'  '  Choose  the  best, 
if  you  can;  or  choose  the  worst;  that  which  hangs  in 
the  wind  dangles  from  a  gibbet.'  "'Shall  I?"  said 
Feeble-mind;  and  the  echo  said,  "Fie!"'  '"Do  I 
love?"  said  Loveless;  and  the  echo  laughed.'  'A 
fault  known  is  a  fault  cured  to  the  strong;  but  to 
the  weak  it  is  a  fetter  riveted.'  'The  mean  man 
doubts,  the  great-hearted  is  deceived.'  '  Great-heart 
was  deceived.  "  Very  well,"  said  Great-heart,'  ' "  I 
have  not  forgotten  my  umbrella,"  said  the  careful 
man;  but  the  lightning  struck  him.'  'Shame  had  a 
fine  bed,  but  where  was  slumber?  Once  he  was  in 
jail  he  slept.'  With  this  moralist  maxims  meant  ac- 
tions; and  where  shall  we  easily  find  a  much  manlier 
spirit  of  wisdom  than  this? 

There  was  yet  another  and  very  different  side  to 
Stevenson  which  struck  others  more  than  it  struck 
myself,  namely,  that  of  the  freakish  or  elvish,  irre- 
sponsible madcap  or  jester  which  sometimes  appeared 
in  him.  It  is  true  that  his  demoniac  quickness  of 
wit  and  intelligence  suggested  occasionally  a  'spirit  of 
air  and  fire'  rather  than  one  of  earth;  that  he  was 
abundantly  given  to  all  kinds  of  quirk  and  laughter; 
and  that  there  was  no  jest  (saving  the  unkind)  he 
would  not  make  and  relish.  The  late  Mr.  J.  A. 
Symonds  always  called  him  Sprite;  qualifying  the 
name,  however,  by  the  epithets  'most  fantastic,  but 


xxxviii  LF/irKRS   OF   STEVENSON 

most  human.'  To  me  the  essential  humanity  was 
always  the  thing  most  apparent.  In  a  fire  well  nour- 
ished of  seasoned  ship-timber,  the  flames  glance 
fantastically  and  of  many  colours,  but  the  glow  at 
heart  is  ever  deep  and  strong;  it  was  at  such  a  glow 
that  the  friends  of  Stevenson  were  accustomed  to 
warm  their  hands,  while  they  admired  and  were  en- 
tertained by  the  shifting  lights. 

It  was  only  in  company,  as  I  have  said,  that  all 
these  many  lights  and  colours  could  be  seen  in  full 
play.  He  would  begin  no  matter  how— perhaps  with 
a  jest  at  some  absurd  adventure  of  his  own,  perhaps 
with  the  recitation,  in  his  vibrating  voice  and  full 
Scotch  accent,  of  some  snatch  of  poetry  that  was 
haunting  him,  perhaps  with  a  rhapsody  of  analytic 
delight  over  some  minute  accident  of  beauty  or  ex- 
pressiveness that  had  struck  him  in  man,  woman, 
child,  or  external  nature.  And  forthwith  the  flood- 
gates would  be  opened,  and  the  talk  would  stream 
on  in  endless,  never  importunate,  flood  and  variety. 
A  hundred  fictitious  characters  would  be  invented  and 
launched  on  their  imaginary  careers;  a  hundred  in- 
genious problems  of  conduct  and  cases  of  honour 
would  be  set  and  solved;  romantic  voyages  would  be 
planned  and  followed  out  in  vision,  with  a  thousand 
incidents;  the  possibilities  of  life  and  art  would  be 
illuminated  with  search-lights  of  bewildering  range 
and  penetration,  sober  argument  and  high  poetic 
eloquence  alternating  with  coruscations  of  insanely 
apposite  slang— the  earthiest  jape  anon  shooting  up 
into  the  empyrean  and  changing  into  the  most  ethe- 
real fantasy— the  stalest  and  most  vulgarised  forms 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

of  speech  gaining  brilliancy  and  illuminating  power 
from  some  hitherto  undreamt-of  application — and 
all  the  while  an  atmosphere  of  goodwill  diffusing 
itself  from  the  speaker,  a  glow  of  eager  benignity  and 
affectionate  laughter  emanating  from  his  presence, 
till  every  one  about  him  seemed  to  catch  something 
of  his  own  gift  and  inspiration.  This  sympathetic 
power  of  inspiring  others  was  the  special  and  dis- 
tinguishing note  of  Stevenson's  conversation.  He 
would  keep  a  houseful  or  a  single  companion  en- 
tertained all  day,  and  day  after  day  and  half  the 
nights,  yet  never  seemed  to  monopolise  the  talk  or 
absorb  it;  rather  he  helped  every  one  about  him  to 
discover  and  to  exercise  unexpected  powers  of  their 
own. 

Imagine  all  this  helped  by  the  most  speaking  of 
presences:  a  steady,  penetrating  fire  in  the  brown, 
wide-set  eyes,  a  compelling  power  and  richness  in 
the  smile;  courteous,  waving  gestures  of  the  arms 
and  long,  nervous  hands,  a  lit  cigarette  generally  held 
between  the  fingers;  continual  rapid  shiftings  and 
pacings  to  and  fro  as  he  conversed:  rapid,  but  not 
flurried  nor  awkward,  for  there  was  a  grace  in  his  at- 
tenuated but  well-carried  figure,  and  his  movements 
were  light,  deft,  and  full  of  spring.  There  was  some- 
thing  for  strangers,  and  even  for  friends,  to  get  over 
m  the  queer  garments  which  in  youth  it  was  his  whim 
to  wear — the  badge,  as  they  always  seemed  to  me, 
partly  of  a  genuine  carelessness,  certainly  of  a  genuine 
kck  of  cash  (the  little  he  had  was  always  absolutely 
at  the  disposal  of  his  friends),  partly  of  a  deliberate 
detachment  from  any  particular  social  class  or  caste, 


xl         LET'lERS  OF  STEVENSON 

partly  of  his  love  of  pickles  and  adventures,  which  he 
thought  befel  a  man  thus  attired  more  readily  than 
another.  But  this  slender,  slovenly,  nondescript  ap- 
parition, long-visaged  and  long-haired,  had  only  to 
speak  in  order  to  be  recognised  in  the  first  minute 
for  a  witty  and  charming  gentleman,  and  within  the 
first  five  for  a  master  spirit  and  man  of  genius.  There 
were,  indeed,  certain  stolidly  conventional  and  super- 
ciliously official  kinds  of  persons,  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  who  were  incapable  of  looking  beyond  the 
clothes,  and  eyed  him  always  with  frozen  suspicion. 
This  attitude  used  sometimes  in  youth  to  drive  him 
into  fits  of  flaming  anger,  which  put  him  helplessly 
at  a  disadvantage  unless,  or  until,  he  could  call  the 
sense  of  humour  to  his  help.  Apart  from  these  his 
human  charm  was  the  same  for  all  kinds  of  people, 
without  distinction  of  class  or  caste;  for  worldly-wise 
old  great  ladies,  whom  he  reminded  of  famous  poets 
in  their  youth;  for  his  brother  artists  and  men  of  let- 
ters, perhaps,  above  all;  for  the  ordinary  clubman; 
for  his  physicians,  who  could  never  do  enough  for 
him;  for  domestic  servants,  who  adored  him;  for  the 
English  policeman  even,  on  whom  he  often  tried, 
quite  in  vain,  to  pass  himself  as  one  of  the  crim- 
inal classes;  for  the  shepherd,  the  street  arab,  or  the 
tramp,  the  common  seaman,  the  beach-comber,  or  the 
Polynesian  high-chief.  Even  in  the  imposed  silence 
and  restraint  of  extreme  sickness  the  power  and  at- 
traction of  the  man  made  themselves  felt,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  more  vitality  and  fire  of  the  spirit  in  him 
as  he  lay  exhausted  and  speechless  in  bed  than  in  an 
ordinary  roomful  of  people  in  health. 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

But  I  have  strayed  from  my  purpose,  which  was 
only  to  indicate  that  in  the  best  of  these  letters  of 
Stevenson's  you  have  some  echo,  far  away  indeed, 
but  yet  the  nearest,  of  his  talk — talk  which  could  not 
possibly  be  taken  down,  and  of  which  nothing  remains 
save  in  the  memory  of  his  friends  an  impression  magi- 
cal and  never  to  be  effaced. 

S.  C. 


THE    LETTERS 
OF    R.    L.  STEVENSON 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

TRAVELS  AND    EXCURSIONS 
1868-1873 

THE  following  section  consists  chiefly  of  extracts 
from  the  correspondence  and  journals  ad- 
dressed by  Louis  Stevenson,  as  a  lad  of  eigh- 
teen to  twenty-two,  to  his  father  and  mother  during 
summer  excursions  to  the  Scottish  coast  or  to  the 
Continent.  There  exist  enough  of  them  to  fill  a 
volume;  but  it  is  not  in  letters  of  this  kind  to  his 
family  that  a  young  man  unbosoms  himself  most 
freely,  and  these  are  perhaps  not  quite  devoid  of  the 
qualities  of  the  guide-book  and  the  descriptive  exer- 
cise. Nevertheless  they  seem  to  me  to  contain  enough 
signs  of  the  future  master- writer,  enough  of  character, 
observation,  and  skill  in  expression,  to  make  a  certain 
number  worth  giving  by  way  of  an  opening  chapter 
to  the  present  book.  Among  them  are  interspersed 
four  or  five  of  a  different  character  addressed  to  other 

I 


2  LETTERS   OF   S'lJ::VENSON 

correspondents,  and  chiefly  to  his  hfelong  friend  and 
intimate,  Mr.  Charles  Baxter. 

On  ])oth  sides  of  the  house  Stevenson  came  of 
interesting  stock.  His  grandfather  was  Robert 
Stevenson,  civil  engineer,  highly  distinguished  as 
the  builder  of  the  Bell  Rock  lighthouse.  By  this 
Robert  Stevenson,  his  three  sons,  and  two  of  his 
grandsons  now  living,  the  business  of  civil  engineers 
in  general,  and  of  official  engineers  to  the  Commis- 
sioners of  Northern  Lights  in  particular,  has  been 
carried  on  at  Edinburgh  with  high  credit  and  public 
utility  for  almost  a  centun,'.  Thomas  Stevenson,  the 
youngest  of  the  three  sons  of  the  original  Robert, 
was  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  father.  He  was  a 
man  not  only  of  mark,  zeal,  and  inventiveness  in  his 
profession,  but  of  a  strong  and  singular  personality; 
a  staunch  friend  and  sagacious  adviser,  trenchant  in 
judgment  and  demonstrative  in  emotion,  outspoken, 
dogmatic, — despotic,  even,  in  little  things,  but  withal 
essentially  chivalrous  and  soft-hearted;  apt  to  pass 
with  the  swiftest  transition  from  moods  of  gloom  or 
sternness  to  those  of  tender  or  freakish  gaiety,  and 
commanding  a  gift  of  humorous  and  figurative  speech 
second  only  to  that  of  his  more  famous  son. 

Thomas  Stevenson  was  married  to  Margaret  Isa- 
bella, youngest  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Lewis  Balfour, 
for  many  years  minister  of  the  parish  of  Colinton  in 
Midlothian.  This  ISfr.  Balfour  (described  by  his 
grandson  in  tlic  essay  called  The  Manse,  was  of  the 
stock  of  the  Balfours  of  Pilrig,  and  grandson  to  that 


BIRTH  AND   PARENTAGE  3 

James  Balfour,  professor  first  of  moral  philosophy 
and  afterwards  of  the  law  of  nature  and  of  nations, 
who  was  held  in  particular  esteem  as  a  philosophical 
controversialist  by  David  Hume.  His  wife,  Henri- 
etta Smith,  a  daughter  of  the  Rev.  George  Smith  of 
Galston,  to  whose  gift  as  a  preacher  Burns  refers 
scoffingly  in  the  Holy  Fair,  is  said  to  have  been  a 
woman  of  uncommon  beauty  and  charm  of  manner. 
Their  daughter,  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson,  suffered  in 
early  and  middle  life  from  chest  and  nerve  troubles, 
and  her  son  may  have  inherited  from  her  some  of  his 
constitutional  weakness.  Capable,  cultivated,  com- 
panionable, charming,  she  was  a  determined  looker 
at  the  bright  side  of  things,  and  hence  better  skilled, 
perhaps,  to  shut  her  eyes  to  troubles  or  differences 
among  those  she  loved  than  to  understand,  compose, 
or  heal  them.  Conventionally  minded  one  might 
have  thought  her,  but  for  the  surprising  readiness 
with  which  in  later  life  she  adapted  herself  to  condi- 
tions of  life  and  travel  the  most  unconventional  pos- 
sible. The  son  and  only  child  of  these  two,  Robert 
Louis  (baptized  Robert  Lewis  Balfour^),  was  born 
on  November  13,  1850,  at  8  Howard  Place,  Edin- 
burgh. His  health  was  infirm  from  the  first,  and 
he  was  with  difficulty  kept  alive  by  the  combined 
care  of  his  mother  and  a  most  devoted  nurse,  Alison 

'  It  was  the  father  who,  from  dislike  of  a  certain  Edinburgh  Lewis, 
changed  the  sound  and  spelling  of  his  son's  second  name  to  Louis 
(spoken  always  with  the  's'  sounded),  and  it  was  the  son  himself 
who  about  his  eighteenth  year  dropped  the  use  of  his  third  name 
and  initial  altogether. 


4  LKTI  J:RS   of   STEVENSON 

Cunningham;  to  whom  his  hfelong  gratitude  will  be 
found  touchingly  expressed  in  the  course  of  the  fol- 
lowing letters.  In  1858  he  was  near  dying  of  a  gas- 
tric fever,  and  was  at  all  times  subject  to  acute 
catarrhal  and  bronchial  affections  and  extreme  ner- 
vous excitability. 

In  January  1853  Stevenson's  parents  moved  to 
I  Inverleith  Terrace,  and  in  May  1857  to  17  Heriot 
Row,  which  continued  to  be  their  Edinburgh  home 
until  the  death  of  Thomas  Stevenson  in  1887.  Much 
of  the  boy's  time  was  also  spent  in  the  manse  of 
Colinton  on  the  Water  of  Leith,  the  home  of  his 
maternal  grandfather.  Ill-health  prevented  him 
getting  much  regular  or  continuous  schooling.  He 
attended  first  (1858-61)  a  preparatory  school  kept 
by  a  Mr.  Henderson  in  India  Street;  and  next  (at 
intervals  for  some  time  after  the  autumn  of  1861) 
the  Edinburgh  Academy. 

Schooling  was  interrupted  in  the  end  of  1862  and 
first  half  of  1863  by  excursions  with  his  parents  to 
Germany,  the  Riviera,  and  Italy.  The  love  of  wan- 
dering, which  was  a  rooted  passion  in  Stevenson's 
nature,  thus  began  early  to  find  satisfaction.  For  a 
few  months  in  the  autumn  of  1863,  when  his  parents 
had  been  ordered  for  a  second  time  to  Mentone  for 
the  sake  of  his  mother's  health,  he  was  sent  to  a 
boarding-school  kept  by  a  Mr.  Wyatt  at  Spring 
Grove,  near  London.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  treat 
the  reader  to  the  series  of  childish  and  boyish  letters 
of  these  days  which  parental  fondness  has  preserved. 


BOYHOOD  5 

But  here  is  one  written  from  his  Enghsh  school  when 
he  was  about  thirteen,  which  is  both  amusing  in  itself 
and  had  a  certain  influence  on  his  destiny,  inasmuch 
as  his  appeal  led  to  his  being  taken  out  to  join  his 
parents  on  the  French  Riviera;  which  from  these 
days  of  his  boyhood  he  never  ceased  to  love,  and  for 
which  the  longing,  amid  the  gloom  of  Edinburgh 
winters,  often  afterwards  gripped  him  by  the  heart. 

Spring  Grave  School,  12th  November  1863 

MA  CHERE  MAMAN,— Jai  recu  votre  lettre  Aujourd- 

hui  et  comme  le  jour  prochaine  est  mon  jour  de 

naisance  je  vous  ecrit  ce  lettre.     Ma  grande  gatteaux 

est  arrive  il  leve  12  livres  et  demi  le  prix  etait  17 

shillings.     Sur  la  soiree  de  Monseigneur  Faux  il  y 

etait  quelques  belles  feux  d'artifice.     Mais  les  polis- 

sons  entrent  dans  notre  champ  et  nos  feux  d'artifice 

et  handkerchiefs  disappeared  quickly,  but  we  charged 

them  out  of  the  field.     Je  suis  presque  driven  mad 

par  une  bruit  terrible  tous  les  garcons  kik  up  comme 

grand  un  bruit  qu'il  est  possible.     I  hope  you  will 

find  your   house   at   Mentone   nice.     I   have   been 

obliged  to  stop  from  writing  by  the  want  of  a  pen, 

but  now  I  have  one,  so  I  will  continue. 

My  dear  papa,  you  told  me  to  tell  you  whenever  I 

was  miserable.     I  do  not  feel  well,  and  I  wish  to  get 

home.     Do  take  me  with  you. 

R.  Stevenson 

This  young  French  scholar  has  yet,  it  will  be  dis- 
cerned, a  good  way  to  travel;  in  later  days  he  ac- 
quired a  complete  reading  and  speaking,  with  a  less 


6        lj:'i  ri-:Rs  oi-  si ]■  vknson 

complete  writing,  mastery  of  the  language,  and  was 
as  much  at  home  with  French  ways  of  thought  and 
life  as  with  Engh'sh. 

For  one  more  specimen  of  his  boyish  style,  it  may 
be  not  amiss  to  give  the  text  of  another  appeal  which 
dates  from  two  and  a  half  years  later,  and  is  also 
typical  of  much  in  his  life's  conditions  both  then  and 
later: — 

2  Sulyarde  Terrace, 
Torquay,  Thursday  {April  1866) 

RESPECTED  PATERNAL  RELATIVE, — I  WritC  tO  make 

a  request  of  the  most  moderate  nature.  Every  year 
I  have  cost  you  an  enormous — nay,  elephantine — sum 
of  money  for  drugs  and  physician's  fees,  and  the  most 
expensive  time  of  the  twelve  months  was  March. 

But  this  year  the  biting  Oriental  blasts,  the  howling 
tempests,  and  the  general  ailments  of  the  human  race 
have  been  successfully  braved  by  yours  truly. 

Does  not  this  deserve  remuneration? 

I  appeal  to  your  charity,  I  appeal  to  your  gener- 
osity, I  appeal  to  your  justice,  I  appeal  to  your  ac- 
counts, I  appeal,  in  fine,  to  your  purse. 

My  sense  of  generosity  forbids  the  receipt  of  more 
— my  sense  of  justice  forbids  the  receipt  of  less — than 
half-a-crown. — Greeting  from,  Sir,  your  most  affec- 
tionate and  needy  son, 

R.  Stevenson 

From  1864  to  1867  Stevenson's  education  was  con- 
ducted chiefly  at  Mr.  Thomson's  private  school  in 
Frederick  Street,  Edinburgh,  and  by  private  tutors 
ip  various  places  to  which  he  tra\'elled  for  his  own 


STUDENT  DAYS  7 

or  his  parents'  health.  These  travels  included  fre- 
quent visits  to  such  Scottish  health  resorts  as  Bridge 
of  Allan,  Dunoon,  Rothesay,  North  Berwick,  Lass- 
wade,  and  Peebles,  and  occasional  excursions  with 
his  father  on  his  nearer  professional  rounds  to  the 
Scottish  coasts  and  lighthouses.  From  1867  the 
family  life  became  more  settled  between  Edinburgh 
and  Swanston  Cottage,  Lothianburn,  a  country  home 
in  the  Pentlands  which  Mr.  Stevenson  first  rented  in 
that  year,  and  the  scenery  and  associations  of  which 
sank  deeply  into  the  young  man's  spirit,  and  vitally 
affected  his  after  thoughts  and  his  art. 

By  this  time  Louis  Stevenson  seemed  to  show 
signs  of  outgrowing  his  early  infirmities  of  health. 
He  was  a  lover,  to  a  degree  even  beyond  his  strength, 
of  outdoor  life  and  exercise  (though  not  of  sports), 
and  it  began  to  be  hoped  that  as  he  grew  up  he  would 
be  fit  to  enter  the  family  profession  of  civil  engineer. 
He  was  accordingly  entered  as  a  student  at  Edin- 
burgh University,  and  for  several  winters  attended 
classes  there  with  such  regularity  as  his  health  and 
inclinations  permitted.  This  was  in  truth  but  small. 
The  mind  on  fire  with  its  own  imaginations,  and  eager 
to  acquire  its  own  experiences  in  its  own  way,  does 
not  take  kindly  to  the  routine  of  classes  and  repeti- 
tions, nor  could  the  desultory  mode  of  schooling 
enforced  upon  him  by  ill-health  answer  much  pur- 
pose by  way  of  discipline.  According  to  his  own 
account  he  was  at  college,  as  he  had  been  at  school, 
an  inveterate  idler  and  truant.     But  outside  the  field 


8  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON 

of  school  and  college  routine  he  showed  an  eager 
curiosity  and  activity  of  mind.  'He  was  of  a  con- 
versable temper,'  so  he  says  of  himself,  '  and  insati- 
ably curious  in  the  aspects  of  life,  and  spent  much 
of  his  time  scraping  acquaintance  with  all  classes  of 
men  and  womankind.'  Of  one  class,  indeed,  and 
that  was  his  own,  he  had  soon  had  enough,  at  least 
in  so  far  as  it  was  to  be  studied  at  the  dinners,  dances, 
and  other  polite  entertainments  of  ordinary  Edin- 
burgh society.  Of  these  he  early  wearied.  At  home 
he  made  himself  pleasant  to  all  comers,  but  for  his 
own  resort  chose  out  a  very  few  houses,  mostly  those 
of  intimate  college  companions,  into  which  he  could 
go  without  constraint,  and  where  his  inexhaustible 
flow  of  poetic,  imaginative,  and  laughing  talk  seems 
generally  to  have  rather  puzzled  his  hearers  than  im- 
pressed them.  On  the  other  hand,  during  his  end- 
less private  rambles  and  excursions,  whether  among 
the  streets  and  slums,  the  gardens  and  graveyards  of 
the  city,  or  farther  afield  among  the  Pentland  hills  or 
on  the  shores  of  Forth,  he  was  never  tired  of  study- 
ing character  and  seeking  acquaintance  among  the 
classes  more  nearly  exposed  to  the  pinch  and  stress 
of  life. 

In  the  eyes  of  anxious  elders,  such  vagrant  ways 
naturally  take  on  the  colours  of  idleness  and  a  love 
of  low  company.  Stevenson  was,  however,  in  his 
own  fashion  an  eager  student  of  books  as  well  as  of 
man  and  nature.  He  read  precociously  and  omniv- 
orously  in  the  belles-lettres,   including  a  very   wide 


STUDENT  DAYS  9 

range  of  English  poetry,  fiction,  and  essays,  and  a 
fairly  wide  range  of  French;  and  was  a  genuine  stu- 
dent of  Scottish  history,  especially  from  the  time  of 
the  persecutions  down,  and  to  some  extent  of  history 
in  general.     The  art  of  literature  was  already  his 
private  passion,  and  something  within  him  even  al- 
ready told  him  that  it  was  to  be  his  life's  work.     On 
all  his  truantries  he  went  pencil  and  copybook  in 
hand,  trying  to  fit  his  impression  of  the  scene  to  words, 
to  compose  original  rhymes,  tales,  dialogues,  and 
dramas,  or  to  imitate  the  style  and  cadences  of  the 
author  he  at  the  moment  preferred.     For  three  or 
four  years,  nevertheless,  he  tried  dutifully,  if  half- 
heartedly, to  prepare  himself  for  the  family  profes- 
sion.    In  1868,  the  year  when  the  following  corre- 
spondence opens,  he  went  to  watch  the  works  of  the 
firm  in  progress  first  at  Anstruther  on  the  coast  of 
Fife,  and  afterwards  at  Wick.     In  1869  he  made  the 
tour  of  the  Orkneys  and  Shetlands  on  board  the  steam 
yacht  of  the  Commissioners  of  Northern  Lights,  and 
in  1870  the  tour  of  the  Western  Islands,  preceded  by 
a  stay  on  the  isle  of  Earraid,  where  the  works  of  the 
Dhu  Heartach  lighthouse  were  then  in  progress.    He 
was  a  favourite,  although  a  very  irregular,  pupil  of 
the  professor  of  engineering,  Fleeming  Jenkin,  whose 
friendship  and  that  of  Mrs.  Jenkin  were  of  great 
value  to  him,  and  whose  life  he  afterwards  wrote; 
and  must  have  shown  some  aptitude  for  the  family 
calling,  inasmuch  as  in  187 1  he  received  the  silver 
medal  of  the  Edinburgh  Society  of  Arts  for  a  paper 


10  LETTERS   OF  S'lI-VENSON 

on  a  suggested  improvement  in  lighthouse  apparatus. 
The  outdoor  and  seafaring  parts  of  an  engineer's  hfc 
were  in  fact  wholly  to  his  taste.  But  he  looked  in- 
stinctively at  the  powers  and  phenomena  of  waves 
and  tide,  of  storm  and  current,  reef,  cliff,  and  rock, 
with  the  eye  of  the  poet  and  artist,  and  not  those  of 
the  practician  and  calculator.  For  desk  work  and 
ofBce  routine  he  had  an  ^  unconquerable  aversion; 
and  his  physical  powers,  had  they  remained  at  their 
best,  must  have  proved  quite  unequal  to  the  work- 
shop training  necessary  to  the  practical  engineer. 
Accordingly  in  187 1  it  was  agreed,  not  without  nat- 
ural reluctance  on  his  father's  part,  that  he  should 
give  up  the  hereditary  vocation  and  read  for  the  bar: 
literature,  on  which  his  heart  was  set,  and  in  which 
his  early  attempts  had  been  encouraged,  being  held 
to  be  by  itself  no  profession,  or  at  least  one  altogether 
too  irregular  and  undefined.  For  the  next  several 
years,  therefore,  he  attended  law  classes  instead  of 
engineering  and  science  classes  in  the  University, 
giving  to  the  subject  a  certain  amount  of  serious,  al- 
though fitful,  attention  until  he  was  called  to  the  bar 
in  1875. 

So  much  for  the  course  of  Stevenson's  outward  life 
during  these  days  at  Edinburgh.  To  tell  the  story  of 
his  inner  life  would  be  a  far  more  complicated  task, 
and  cannot  here  be  attempted  even  briefly.  The 
ferment  of  youth  was  more  acute  and  more  pro- 
longed in  him  than  in  most  men  even  of  genius.  In 
the  Introduction  I  have  tried  to  give  some  notion  0/ 


STUDENT  DAYS  ii 

the  many  various  strains  and  elements  which  met  in 
him,  and  which  were  in  these  days  pulHng  one  against 
another  in  his  half-formed  being,  at  a  great  expense 
of  spirit  and  body.  Add  the  storms,  which  from 
time  to  time  attacked  him,  of  shivering  repulsion  from 
the  climate  and  conditions  of  life  in  the  city  which  he 
yet  deeply  and  imaginatively  loved;  the  moods  of 
spiritual  revolt  against  the  harsh  doctrines  of  the 
creed  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up,  and  to  which 
his  parents  were  deeply,  his  father  even  passionately, 
attached;  the  seasons  of  temptation,  most  strongly 
besetting  the  ardent  and  poetic  temperament,  to  seek 
solace  among  the  crude  allurements  of  the  city 
streets. 

In  the  later  and  maturer  correspondence  which 
will  appear  in  these  volumes,  the  agitations  of  the 
writer's  early  days  are  often  enough  referred  to  in 
retrospect.  In  the  boyish  letters  to  his  parents, 
which  make  up  the  chief  part  of  this  first  section,  they 
naturally  find  no  expression  at  all;  nor  will  these 
letters  be  found  to  differ  much  in  any  way  from  those 
of  any  other  lively  and  observant  lad  who  is  also 
something  of  a  reader  and  has  some  natural  gift  of 
writing.  At  the  end  of  the  section  I  have  indeed 
printed  one  cry  of  the  heart,  written  not  to  his  pa- 
rents, but  about  them,  and  telling  of  the  strain  which 
matters  of  religious  difference  for  a  while  brought 
into  his  home  relations.  The  attachment  between 
the  father  and  son  from  childhood  was  exceptionally 
strong.     But  the  father  was  staunchly  wedded  to  the 


12  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON 

hereditary  creeds  and  dogmas  of  Scottish  Calvinistic 
Christianity;  while  the  course  of  the  young  man's 
reading,  with  the  spirit  of  the  generation  in  which 
he  grew  up,  had  loosed  him  from  the  bonds  of  that 
theology,  and  even  of  dogmatic  Christianity  in  gen- 
eral, and  had  taught  him  to  respect  all  creeds  alike 
as  expressions  of  the  cravings  and  conjectures  of  the 
human  spirit  in  face  of  the  unsolved  mystery  of 
things,  rather  than  to  cling  to  any  one  of  them  as  a 
revelation  of  ultimate  truth.  The  shock  to  the 
father  was  great  when  his  son's  opinions  came  to  his 
knowledge;  and  there  ensued  a  time  of  extremely 
painful  discussion  and  private  tension  between  them. 
In  due  time  this  cloud  upon  a  family  life  otherwise 
very  harmonious  and  afTectionatc  passed  quite  away. 
But  the  greater  the  love,  the  greater  the  pain;  and 
when  I  first  knew  Stevenson  this  trouble  gave  him  no 
peace,  and  it  has  left  a  strong  trace  upon  his  mind 
and  work.  See  particularly  the  parable  called  '  The 
House  of  Eld'  in  his  collection  of  Fabks,  and  the 
many  studies  of  difficult  paternal  and  filial  relations 
which  are  to  be  found  in  The  Story  of  a  Lie,  The 
Misadventures  of  John  Nicholson,  TJie  Wrecker,  and 
Weir  of  Hermiston. 


AET.  i8]       THOMAS   STEVENSON  13 


To  Thomas  Stevenson 

In  July  1868  R.  L.  S.  went  to  watch  the  harbour  works  at  An- 
struther  and  afterwards  those  at  Wick.  Of  his  private  moods  and 
occupations  in  the  Anstruther  days  he  has  told  in  restrospect  in  the 
essay  Random  Memories:  the  Coast  of  Fife.  Here  are  some  pas- 
sages from  letters  written  at  the  time  to  his  parents: — 

'Kenzie  House 
First  sheet:  Thursday.  or  whatever  it  is  called, 

Second  sheet:  Friday.  AnstrutJier.    [7u/y  1868.] 

MY  DEAR  FATHER, — My  lodgings  are  very  nice,  and 
I  don't  think  there  are  any  children.  There  is  a  box 
of  mignonette  in  the  window  and  a  factory  of  dried 
rose-leaves,  which  make  the  atmosphere  a  trifle  heavy, 
but  very  pleasant. 

When  you  come,  bring  also  my  paint-box — I  forgot 
it.  I  am  going  to  try  the  travellers  and  jennies,  and 
have  made  a  sketch  of  them  and  begun  the  drawing. 
After  that  I'll  do  the  staging. 

Mrs.  Brown  'has  suffered  herself  from  her  stom- 
mick,  and  that  makes  her  kind  of  think  for  other 
people.'  She  is  a  motherly  lot.  Her  mothering  and 
thought  for  others  displays  itself  in  advice  against 
hard-boiled  eggs,  well-done  meat,  and  late  dinners, 
these  being  my  only  requests.  Fancy — I  am  the 
only  person  in  Anstruther  who  dines  in  the  afternoon. 

If  you  could  bring  me  some  wine  when  you  come, 
'twould  be  a  good  move:  I  fear  vin  d' Anstruther; 
and  having  procured  myself  a  severe  attack  of  gripes 
by  two  days'  total  abstinence  on  chilly  table  beer,  I 
have  been  forced  to  purchase  Green  Ginger  ('  Some- 
body or  other's  "celebrated"'),  for  the  benefit  of 
my  stomach,  like  St.  Paul, 


14  LKTTERS   OF   S'IKVKNSON      [.868 

There  is  little  or  nothinj];  doing  here  to  be  seen. 
By  hcightenin<^  the  corner  in  a  hurry  to  support  the 
staging  they  have  let  the  masons  get  ahead  of  the 
divers  and  wait  till  they  can  overtake  them.  I  wish 
you  would  write  and  put  me  up  to  the  sort  of  things 
to  ask  and  fmd  out.  I  received  your  registered 
letter  with  the  ;4'5 ;  it  will  last  for  ever.  To-morrow 
I  will  watch  the  masons  at  the  pier-foot  and  see  how 
long  they  take  to  work  that  Fife-ness  stone  you  ask 
about;  they  get  sixpence  an  hour;  so  that  is  the  only 
datum  rcfjuircd. 

It  is  awful  how  slowly  I  draw,  and  how  ill:  I  am 
not  nearly  done  with  the  travellers,  and  have  not 
thought  of  the  jennies  yet.  When  Fm  drawing,  I 
find  out  something  I  have  not  measured,  or  having 
measured,  have  not  noted,  or,  having  noted,  cannot 
find;  and  so  I  have  to  trudge  to  the  pier  again  ere  I 
can  go  farther  with  my  noble  design. 

I  haven't  seen  fruit  since  I  left. 

Love  to  all. — Your  afTectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

'Kenzie  House,  Anstruthcr  [later  in  July,  1868] 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — To-night  I  went  with  the 
youngest  M.  to  see  a  strolling  band  of  players  in  the 
townhall.  A  large  table  placed  below  the  gallery 
with  a  print  curtain  on  either  side  of  the  most  limited 
dimensions  was  at  once  the  scenery  and  the  prosce- 
nium. The  manager  told  us  that  his  scenes  were 
sixteen  by  sixty-four,  and  so  could  not  be  got  in 


AET.  i8]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON      15 

Though  I  knew,  or  at  least  felt  sure,  that  there  were 
no  such  scenes  in  the  poor  man's  possession,  I  could 
not  laugh,  as  did  the  major  part  of  the  audience,  at 
this  shift  to  escape  criticism.  We  saw  a  wretched 
farce,  and  some  comic  songs  were  sung.  The  man- 
ager sang  one,  but  it  came  grimly  from  his  throat. 
The  whole  receipt  of  the  evening  was  5s.  and  3d 
out  of  which  had  to  come  room,  gas,  and  town 
drummer.  We  left  soon;  and  I  must  say  came  out 
as  sad  as  I  have  been  for  ever  so  long:  I  think  that 
manager  had  a  soul  above  comic  songs.  I  said  this 
to  young  M.,  who  is  a  '  Phillistine '  (Matthew  Arnold's 
Philistine  you  understand),  and  he  replied,  'How 
much  happier  he  would  be  as  a  common  working- 
man!'  I  told  him  I  thought  he  would  be  less  happy 
earning  a  comfortable  living  as  a  shoemaker  than  he 
was  starving  as  an  actor,  with  such  artistic  work  as 
he  had  to  do.  But  the  Phillistine  wouldn't  see  it. 
You  observe  that  I  spell  Philistine  time  about  with 
one  and  two  I's. 

As  we  went  home  we  heard  singing,  and  went  into 
the  porch  of  the  schoolhouse  to  listen.  A  fisherman 
entered  and  told  us  to  go  in.  It  was  a  psalmody 
class.  One  of  the  girls  had  a  glorious  voice.  We 
stayed  for  half  an  hour. 

Tuesday. — I  am  utterly  sick  of  this  grey,  grim,  sea- 
beaten  hole.  I  have  a  little  cold  in  my  head,  which 
makes  my  eyes  sore;  and  you  can't  tell  how  utterly 
sick  I  am,  and  how  anxious  to  get  back  among  trees 
and  flowers  and  something  less  meaningless  than 
this  bleak  fertility. 

Papa  need  not  imagine  that  I  have  a  bad  cold  or 


i6  LETIERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.868 

am  stone-blind  from  this  description,  which  is  the 
whole  truth. 

Last  night  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fortune  called  in  a  dog- 
cart, Fortune's  beard  and  Mrs.  F.'s  brow  glittering 
with  mist-drops,  to  ask  me  to  come  next  Saturday. 
Conditionally,  I  accepted.  Do  you  think  I  can  cut 
it?  I  am  only  anxious  to  go  slick  home  on  the 
Saturday.  Write  by  return  of  post  and  tell  me  what 
to  do.  If  possible,  I  should  like  to  cut  the  business 
and  come  right  slick  out  to  Swanston. — I  remain, 
your  alTectionate  son,  ^    ^^  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

An  early  Portfolio  paper  0«  tlie  Enjoyment  of  Unpleasant  Places, 
as  well  as  the  second  part  of  the  Random  Memories  essay,  written 
twenty  years  later,  refer  to  the  same  experiences  as  the  following 
letters.  Stevenson  lodged  during  his  stay  at  Wick  in  a  private 
hotel  on  the  Harbour  Brae,  kept  by  a  Mr.  Sutherland.' 

Wick,  Friday,  September  ii,  1868 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, —  .  .  .  Wick  lies  at  the  end  or 
elbow  of  an  open  triangular  bay,  hemmed  on  either 
side  by  shores,  either  cliff  or  steep  earth-bank,  of  no 
great  height.  The  grey  houses  of  Pulteney  extend 
along  the  southerly  shore  almost  to  the  cape;  and  it 
is  about  half-way  down  this  shore — no,  six-sevenths 
way  down — that  the  new  breakwater  extends  athwart 
the  bay. 

Certainly  Wick  in  itself  possesses  no  beauty:  bare, 
grey  shores,  grim  grey  houses,  grim  grey  sea;  not 
even  the  gleam  of  red  tiles;  not  even  the  greenness  of 

'  See  a  paper  on  7?.  L.  Stei>enson  in  Wick,  by  Margaret  H.  Rober- 
ton,  in  Magazine  of  Wick  Literary  Society,  Christmas  1903. 


AET.  i,s]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON       17 

a  tree.  The  southerly  heights,  when  I  came  here, 
were  black  with  people,  fishers  waiting  on  wind  and 
night.  Now  all  the  S.Y.S.  (Stornoway  boats)  have 
beaten  out  of  the  bay,  and  the  Wick  men  stay  in- 
doors or  wrangle  on  the  quays  with  dissatisfied  fish- 
curers,  knee-high  in  brine,  mud,  and  herring  refuse. 
The  day  when  the  boats  put  out  to  go  home  to  the 
Hebrides,  the  girl  here  told  me  there  was  'a  black 
wind';  and  on  going  out,  I  found  the  epithet  as 
justifiable  as  it  was  picturesque.  A  cold,  Uack 
southerly  wind,  with  occasional  rising  showers  of 
rain;  it  was  a  fine  sight  to  see  the  boats  beat  out 
a-teeth  of  it. 

In  Wick  I  have  never  heard  any  one  greet  his 
neighbour  with  the  usual  'Fine  day'  or  'Good 
morning.'  Both  come  shaking  their  heads^  and  both 
say,  'Breezy,  breezy!'  And  such  is  the  atrocious 
quality  of  the  climate,  that  the  remark  is  almost  in- 
variably justified  by  the  fact. 

The  streets  are  full  of  the  Highland  fishers,  lub- 
berly, stupid,  inconceivably  lazy  and  heavy  to  move. 
You  bruise  against  them,  tumble  them  over,  elbow 
them  against  the  wall — all  to  no  purpose;  they  will 
not  budge;  and  you  are  forced  to  leave  the  pavement 
every  step. 

To  the  south,  however,  is  as  fine  a  piece  of  coast 
scenery  as  I  ever  saw.  Great  black  chasms,  huge 
black  cliffs,  rugged  and  over-hung  gullies,  natural 
arches,  and  deep  green  pools  below  them,  almost  too 
deep  to  let  you  see  the  gleam  of  sand  among  the 
darker  weed:  there  are  deep  caves  too.  In  one  of 
these  lives  a  tribe  of  gipsies.     The  men  are  always 


i8  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.868 

drunk,  sim])ly  and  truthfully  always.  From  morn- 
ing to  evening  the  great  villainous-looking  fellows 
are  either  sleeping  ofl  the  last  debauch,  or  hulking 
about  the  cove  'in  the  horrors.'  The  cave  is  deep, 
high,  and  airy,  and  might  be  made  comfortable 
enough.  But  they  just  live  among  heaped  boulders, 
damp  with  continual  droppings  from  above,  with  no 
more  furniture  than  two  or  three  tin  pans,  a  truss  of 
rotten  straw,  and  a  few  ragged  cloaks.  In  winter 
the  surf  bursts  into  the  mouth  and  often  forces  them 
to  abandon  it. 

An  emeute  of  disappointed  fishers  w-as  feared,  and 
two  ships  of  war  are  in  the  bay  to  render  assistance 
to  the  municipal  authorities.  This  is  the  ides;  and, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  said  ides  are  passed. 
Still  there  is  a  good  deal  of  disturbance,  many  drunk 
men,  and  a  double  supply  of  police.  I  saw  them  sent 
for  by  some  people  and  enter  an  inn,  in  a  pretty  good 
hurry:  what  it  was  for  I  do  not  know. 

You  would  see  by  papa's  letter  about  the  carpenter 
who  fell  off  the  staging:  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  so 
much  excited  in  my  life.  The  man  was  back  at  his 
work,  and  I  asked  him  how  he  was;  but  he  was  a 
Highlander,  and — need  I  add  it? — dickens  a  word 
could  I  understand  of  his  answer.  What  is  still 
worse,  I  find  the  people  hereabout — that  is  to  say,  the 
Highlanders,  not  the  northmen — don't  understand 
me. 

I  have  lost  a  shilling's  worth  of  postage  stamps, 
which  has  damped  my  ardour  for  buying  big  lots  of 
'em:  I'll  Iniy  them  one  at  a  time  as  I  want  'em  for  the 
future. 


AET.  i8]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON       19 

The  Free  Church  minister  and  I  got  quite  thick. 
He  left  last  night  about  two  in  the  morning,  when  I 
went  to  turn  in.  He  gave  me  the  enclosed. — I  re- 
main your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

Wick,  September  5,  1868.     Monday. 

MY  DEAR  MAMMA, — This  morning  I  got  a  delight- 
ful haul:  your  letter  of  the  fourth  (surely  mis-dated); 
papa's  of  same  day;  Virgil's  Bucolics,  very  thank- 
fully received;  and  Aikman's  Annals,'^  a  precious  and 
most  acceptable  donation,  for  which  I  tender  my 
most  ebullient  thanksgivings.  I  almost  forgot  to 
drink  my  tea  and  eat  mine  egg. 

It  contains  more  detailed  accounts  than  anything 
I  ever  saw,  except  Wodrow,  without  being  so  por- 
tentously tiresome  and  so  desperately  overborne  with 
footnotes,  proclamations,  acts  of  Parliament,  and 
citations  as  that  last  history. 

I  have  been  reading  a  good  deal  of  Herbert.  He's 
a  clever  and  a  "devout  cove;  but  in  places  awfully 
twaddley  (if  I  may  use  the  word).  Oughtn't  this  to 
rejoice  papa's  heart — 

'  Carve  or  discourse;  do  not  a  famine  fear. 
Who  carves  is  kind  to  two,  who  talks  to  all.' 

You  understand?  The  'fearing  a  famine'  is  ap- 
plied to  people  gulping  down  solid  vivers  without  a 
word,  as  if  the  ten  lean  kine  began  to-morrow. 

'  Aikman's  Annals  of  the  Persecution  in  Scotland. 


20         LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.868 

Do  you  remember  condemning  something  of 
mine  for  being  too  obtrusively  didactic.  Listen  to 
Herbert — 

'  Is  it  not  verse  except  enchanted  groves 
And  sudden  arlx)urs  shadow  coarse-spun  lines? 
Must  purling  streams  refresh  a  lover's  loves? 
Musi  till  be  veiled,  while  he  that  reads  divines 
Catching  the  sense  at  two  removes  ? ' 

You  see,  'except'  was  used  for  '  unless'  before  1630. 

Tuesday. — The  riots  were  a  hum.  No  more  has 
been  heard;  and  one  of  the  war-steamers  has  deserted 
in  disgust. 

The  Moonstone  is  frightfully  interesting:  isn't  the 
detective  prime?  Don't  say  anything  about  the 
plot;  for  I  have  only  read  on  to  the  end  of  Better- 
edge's  narrative,  so  don't  know  anything  about  it 
yet. 

I  thought  to  have  gone  on  to  Thurso  to-night,  but 
the  coach  was  full;  so  I  go  to-morrow  instead. 

To-day  I  had  a  grouse:  great  glorification. 

There  is  a  drunken  brute  in  the  house  who  dis- 
turbed my  rest  last  night.  He's  a  very  respectable 
man  in  general,  but  when  on  the  'spree'  a  most  con- 
summate fool.  When  he  came  in  he  stood  on  the 
top  of  the  stairs  and  preached  in  the  dark  with  great 
solemnity  and  no  audience  from  12  p.m.  to  half-past 
one.  At  last  I  opened  my  door.  'Are  we  to  have 
no  sleep  at  all  for  that  drunken  brute?'  I  said.  As  I 
hoped,  it  had  the  desired  effect.  'Drunken  brute!' 
he  howled,  in  much  indignation;  then  after  a  pause, 
in  a  voice  of  some  contrition, '  Well,  if  T  am  a  drunken 
brute,  it's  only  once  in  the  twelve-month!'     And  that 


AET.  i8]  MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON      21 

was  the  end  of  him;  the  insult  rankled  in  his  mind; 
and  he  retired  to  rest.  He  is  a  fish-curer,  a  man  over 
fifty,  and  pretty  rich  too.  He's  as  bad  again  to-day; 
but  I'll  be  shot  if  he  keeps  me  awake.  I'll  douse  him 
with  water  if  he  makes  a  row. — Ever  your  affectionate 
son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 
To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

The  Macdonald  father  and  son  here  mentioned  were  engineers 
attached  to  the  Stevenson  firm  and  in  charge  of  the  harbour  works. 

Wick,  September  1868.     Saturday,  10  A.M. 

MY  DEAR  mother,— The  last  two  days  have  been 
dreadfully  hard,  and  I  was  so  tired  in  the  evenings 
that  I  could  not  write.  In  fact,  last  night  I  went  to 
sleep  immediately  after  dinner,  or  very  nearly  so. 
My  hours  have  been  10 — 2  and  3 — 7  out  in  the  lighter 
or  the  small  boat,  in  a  long,  heavy  roll  from  the 
nor'-east.  When  the  dog  was  taken  out,  he  got 
awfully  ill;  one  of  the  men,  Geordie  Grant  by  name 
and  surname,  followed  shoot  with  considerable  eclat; 
but,  wonderful  to  relate!  I  kept  well.  My  hands  are 
skinned,  blistered,  discoloured,  and  engrained  with 
tar,  some  of  which  latter  has  established  itself  under 
my  nails  in  a  position  of  such  natural  strength  that 
it  defies  all  my  efforts  to  dislodge  it.  The  worst 
work  I  had  was  when  David  (Macdonald's  eldest) 
and  I  took  the  charge  ourselves.  He  remained  in 
the  lighter  to  tighten  or  slacken  the  guys  as  we  raised 
the  pole  towards  the  perpendicular,  with  two  men. 
I  was  with  four  men  in  the  boat.     We  dropped  an 


11  LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.868 

anchor  out  a  good  bit,  then  tied  a  cord  to  the  pole, 
took,  a  turn  round  the  stcrnmost  thwart  with  it,  and 
pulled  on  the  anchor  line.  As  the  great,  big,  wet 
hawser  came  in  it  soaked  you  to  the  skin:  I  was  the 
sternest  (used,  by  way  of  variety,  for  sternmost)  of 
the  lot,  and  had  to  coil  it — a  work  which  involved, 
from  its  being  so  stiff  and  your  being  busy  pulling 
with  all  your  might,  no  little  trouble  and  an  extra 
ducking.  We  got  it  up;  and,  just  as  we  were  going 
to  sing  'Victory!'  one  of  the  guys  slipped  in,  the  pole 
tottered — went  over  on  its  side  again  like  a  shot,  and 
behold  the  end  of  our  labour. 

You  see,  I  have  been  roughing  it;  and  though  some 
parts  of  the  letter  may  be  neither  very  comprehensible 
nor  very  interesting  to  you,  I  think  that  perhaps  it 
might  amuse  Willie  Traquair,  who  delights  in  all 
such  dirty  jobs. 

The  first  day,  I  forgot  to  mention,  was  like  mid- 
winter for  cold,  and  rained  incessantly  so  hard  that 
the  livid  white  of  our  cold-pinched  faces  wore  a  sort 
of  inflamed  rash  on  the  windward  side. 

I  am  not  a  bit  the  worse  of  it,  except  fore-mentioned 
state  of  hands,  a  slight  crick  in  my  neck  from  the  rain 
running  down,  and  general  stiffness  from  pulling, 
hauling,  and  tugging  for  dear  life. 

We  have  got  double  weights  at  the  guys,  and  hope 
to  get  it  up  like  a  shot. 

What  fun  you  three  must  be  having!  I  hope  the 
cold  don't  disagree  with  you. — I  remain,  my  dear 
mother,  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


AET.  i8]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON      23 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

The  following  will  help  the  reader  to  understand  the  passage 
referring  to  this  undertaking  in  Stevenson's  biographical  essay  on 
his  father  where  he  has  told  how  in  the  end  'the  sea  proved  too 
strong  for  men's  arts,  and  after  expedients  hitherto  unthought  of, 
and  on  a  scale  hyper-Cyclopean,  the  work  must  be  deserted,  and 
now  stands  a  ruin  in  that  bleak,  God-forsaken  bay.'  The  Russels 
herein  mentioned  are  the  family  of  Sheriff  Russel.  The  tombstone 
of  Miss  Sara  Russel  is  to  be  seen  in  Wick  cemetery. 

PuUeney,  Wick,  Sunday,  September  1868 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — Another  storm:  wind  higher, 
rain  thicker:  the  wind  still  rising  as  the  night  closes 
in  and  the  sea  slowly  rising  along  with  it;  it  looks 
like  a  three  days'  gale. 

Last  week  has  been  a  blank  one :  always  too  much 
sea, 

I  enjoyed  myself  very  much  last  night  at  the  R.'s. 
There  was  a  little  dancing,  much  singing  and  supper. 

Are  you  not  well  that  you  do  not  write  ?  I  haven't 
heard  from  you  for  more  than  a  fortnight. 

The  wind  fell  yesterday  and  rose  again  to-day;  it 
is  a  dreadful  evening;  but  the  wind  is  keeping  the 
sea  down  as  yet.  Of  course,  nothing  more  has  been 
done  to  the  poles;  and  I  can't  tell  when  I  shall 
be  able  to  leave,  not  for  a  fortnight  yet,  I  fear,  at 
the  earliest,  for  the  winds  are  persistent.  Where's 
Murra?  Is  Cummy  struck  dumb  about  the  boots? 
I  wish  you  would  get  somebody  to  write  an  interest- 
ing letter  and  say  how  you  are,  for  you're  on  the  broad 
of  your  back  I  see.  There  hath  arrived  an  inroad  of 
farmers  to-night;  and  I  go  to  avoid  them  to  Mac- 
donald  if  he's  disengaged,  to  the  Russels  if  not. 


24  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.868 

Sunday  {later). — Storm  without:  wind  and  rain: 
a  confused  mass  of  wind-driven  rain-squalls,  wind- 
ragged  mist,  foam,  spray,  and  great,  grey  waves.  Of 
this  hereafter;  in  the  meantime  let  us  follow  the  due 
course  of  historic  narrative. 

Seven  p.m.  found  me  at  Breadalbane  Terrace,  clad 
in  spotless  blacks,  white  tie,  shirt,  et  caetera,  and  Im- 
ished  off  below  with  a  pair  of  navvies'  boots.  How 
true  that  the  devil  is  betrayed  by  his  feet!  A  mes- 
sage to  Cummy  at  last.  Why,  O  treacherous  woman ! 
were  my  dress  boots  withheld? 

Dramatis  personae:  pere  Russel,  amusing,  long- 
winded,  in  many  points  like  papa;  mere  Russel,  nice, 
delicate,  likes  hymns,  knew  Aunt  Margaret  ('t  'ould 
man  knew  Uncle  Alan);  fille  Russel,  nommce  Sara 
(no  h),  rather  nice,  lights  up  well,  good  voice,  inter- 
ested face;  Miss  L.,  nice  also,  washed  out  a  little, 
and,  I  think,  a  trifle  sentimental;  fils  Russel,  in  a 
Leith  office,  smart,  full  of  happy  epithet,  amusing. 
They  are  very  nice  and  very  kind,  asked  me  to  come 
back — 'any  night  you  feel  dull:  and  any  night 
doesn't  mean  no  night:  we'll  be  so  glad  to  see  you.' 
Cest  la  mere  qui  park. 

I  was  back  there  again  to-night.  There  was  hymn- 
singing,  and  general  religious  controversy  till  eight, 
after  which  talk  was  secular.  Mrs.  Sutherland  was 
deeply  distressed  about  the  boot  business.  She  con- 
soled me  by  saying  that  many  would  be  glad  to  have 
such  feet  whatever  shoes  they  had  on.  Unfortu- 
nately, fishers  and  seafaring  men  are  too  facile  to  be 
compared  with!  This  looks  like  enjoyment!  better 
speck  than  .Vnster. 


AET.  i8]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON      25 

I  have  done  with  frivohty.  This  morning  I  was 
awakened  by  Mrs.  Sutherland  at  the  door.  'There's 
a  ship  ashore  at  Shaltigoe!'  As  my  senses  slowly 
flooded,  I  heard  the  whistling  and  the  roaring  of 
wind,  and  the  lashing  of  gust-blown  and  uncertain 
flaws  of  rain.  I  got  up,  dressed,  and  went  out.  The 
mizzled  sky  and  rain  blinded  you. 


C 

c 


C  D  is  the  new  pier. 

A  the  schooner  ashore.     B  the  salmon  house. 

She  was  a  Norwegian:  coming  in  she  saw  our 
first  gauge-pole,  standing  at  point  E.  Norse  skipper 
thought  it  was  a  sunk  smack,  and  dropped  his  anchor 
in  full  drift  of  sea:  chain  broke:  schooner  came 
ashore.  Insured:  laden  with  wood:  skipper  owner 
of  vessel  and  cargo:  bottom  out. 

I  was  in  a  great  fright  at  first  lest  we  should  be 
liable;  but  it  seems  that's  all  right. 

Some  of  the  waves  were  twenty  feet  high.  The 
spray  rose  eighty  feet  at  the  new  pier.  Some  wood 
has  come  ashore,  and  the  roadway  seems  carried 
away.  There  is  something  fishy  at  the  far  end  where 
the  cross  wall  is  building;  but  till  we  are  able  to  get 
along,  all  speculation  is  vain. 

I  am  so  sleepy  I  am  writing  nonsense. 


26  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.868 

I  stood  a  long  while  on  the  cope  watching  the  sea 

below  me;   I  hear  its  dull,  monotonous  roar  at  this 

moment  below  the  shrieking  of  the  wind;   and  there 

came  ever  recurring  to  my  mind  the  verse  I  am  so 

fond  of: — 

'But  yet  the  T.nrd  tliat  is  on  high 

Is  more  of  mij^lit  by  far 
Than  noise  of  many  waters  is 
Or  great  sea -billows  are.' 

The  thunder  at  the  wall  when  it  first  struck — the 
rush  along  ever  growing  higher — the  great  jet  of 
snow-white  spray  some  forty  feet  above  you — and  the 
'noise  of  many  waters,'  the  roar,  the  hiss,  the  'shriek- 
ing' among  the  shingle  as  it  fell  head  over  heels  at 
your  feet.  I  watched  if  it  threw  the  big  stones  at  the 
wall;  but  it  never  moved  them. 

Monday. — The  end  of  the  work  displays  gaps, 
cairns  of  ten  ton  blocks,  stones  torn  from  their  places 
and  turned  right  round.  The  damage  above  water 
is  comparatively  little:  what  there  may  be  below, 
on  ne  sail  pas  encore.  The  roadway  is  torn  away, 
cross-heads,  broken  planks  tossed  here  and  there, 
planks  gnawn  and  mumbled  as  if  a  starved  bear  had 
been  trying  to  eat  them,  planks  with  spales  lifted 
from  them  as  if  they  had  been  dressed  with  a  rugged 
plane,  one  pile  swaying  to  and  fro  clear  of  the  bottom, 
the  rails  in  one  place  sunk  a  foot  at  least.  This  was 
not  a  great  storm,  the  waves  were  light  and  short. 
Yet  when  we  are  standing  at  the  office,  I  felt  the 
ground  beneath  me  quail  as  a  huge  roller  thundered 
on  the  work  at  the  last  year's  cross  wall. 

How  could  nosier  amicus  Q.  ma.ximus  appreciate 


AET.  20]  MRS.   THOMAS   STEVENSON      27 

a  storm  at  Wick?  It  requires  a  little  of  the  artistic 
temperament,  of  which  Mr.  T.  S./  C.E.,  possesses 
some,  whatever  he  may  say.  I  can't  look  at  it  prac- 
tically however:  that  will  come,  I  suppose,  like  grey 
hair  or  coffin  nails. 

Our  pole  is  snapped:  a  fortnight's  work  and  the 
loss  of  the  Norse  schooner  all  for  nothing! — except 
experience  and  dirty  clothes. — Your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

I  omit  the  letters  of  1869,  which  describe  at  great  length,  and  not 
very  interestingly,  a  summer  trip  on  board  the  lighthouse  steamer 
to  the  Orkneys,  Shetlands,  and  the  Fair  Isle.  The  following  of 
1870  I  give  (by  consent  of  the  lady  who  figures  as  a  youthful  char- 
acter in  the  narrative)  both  for  the  sake  of  its  lively  social  sketches 
—including  that  of  the  able  painter  and  singular  personage,  the 
late  Sam  Bough, — and  because  it  is  dated  from  the  Isle  of  Earraid, 
celebrated  alike  in  Kidnapped  and  in  the  essay  Memoirs  of  an  Islet. 

Earraid,  Thursday,  August  $th,  1870 
MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  have  SO  much  to  say,  that 
needs  must  I  take  a  large  sheet;  for  the  notepaper 
brings  with  it  a  chilling  brevity  of  style.  Indeed,  I 
think  pleasant  writing  is  proportional  to  the  size  of 
the  material  you  write  withal. 

From  Edinburgh  to  Greenock,  I  had  the  ex- 
secretary  of  the  E.U.  Conservative  Club,  Murdoch. 
At  Greenock  I  spent  a  dismal  evening,  though  I 
found  a  pretty  walk.  Next  day  on  board  the  lona, 
I  had  Maggie  Thomson  to  Tarbet;  Craig,  a  well- 
read,  pleasant  medical,  to  Ardrishaig;  and  Professor, 
Mrs.,  and  all  the  little  Fleeming  Jenkinseses  to  Oban. 

'  Thomas  Stevenson. 


28  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.870 

At  Oban,  that  night,  it  was  delicious.  Mr.  Ste- 
phenson's yacht  lay  in  the  bay,  and  a  splendid  band 
on  board  played  delightfully.  The  waters  of  the  bay 
were  as  smooth  as  a  mill-pond;  and,  in  the  dusk,  the 
black  shadows  of  the  hills  stretched  across  to  our 
very  feet  and  the  lights  were  reflected  in  long  lines. 
At  intervals,  blue  lights  were  burned  on  the  water: 
and  rockets  were  sent  up.  Sometimes  great  stars  of 
clear  fire  fell  from  them,  until  the  bay  received  and 
quenched  them.  I  hired  a  boat  and  skulled  round 
the  yacht  in  the  dark.  When  I  came  in,  a  very 
pleasant  Englishman  on  the  steps  fell  into  talk  with 
me,  till  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Next  morning  I  slept  on  or  I  should  have  gone  to 
Glencoe.  As  it  was,  it  was  blazing  hot;  so  I  hired 
a  boat,  pulled  all  forenoon  along  the  coast  and 
had  a  delicious  bathe  on  the  beautiful  white  beach. 
Coming  home,  I  cotogaVd  my  Englishman,  lunched 
alongside  of  him  and  his  sister,  and  took  a  walk 
with  him  in  the  afternoon,  during  which  I  find  that 
he  was  travelling  with  a  servant,  kept  horses,  et  cetera. 
At  dinner  he  wished  me  to  sit  beside  him  and  his 
sister;  but  there  was  no  room.  When  he  came  out 
he  told  me  why  he  was  so  empresse  on  this  point. 
He  had  found  out  my  name,  and  that  I  was  connected 
with  lighthouses,  and  his  sister  wished  to  know  if  I 
were  any  relative  of  the  Stevenson  in  Ballantyne's 
Lighthouse.  All  evening,  he,  his  sister,  I,  and  Mr. 
Hargrove,  of  Hargrove  and  Fowler,  sate  in  front  of 
the  hotel.  I  asked  Mr.  H.  if  he  knew  who  my  friend 
was.  *  Yes,' he  said;  '  I  never  met  him  before:  but 
my  partner  knows  him.     He  is  a  man  of  old  family; 


AET.  20]  MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON      29 

and  the  solicitor  of  highest  standing  about  Sheffield.' 
At  night,  he  said,  '  Now  if  you're  down  in  my  neigh- 
bourhood, you  must  pay  me  a  visit.  I  am  very  fond 
of  young  men  about  me;  and  I  should  like  a  visit 
from  you  very  much.  I  can  take  you  through  any 
factory  in  Sheffield  and  I'll  drive  you  all  about  the 
D oakeries.'  He  then  wrote  me  down  his  address; 
and  we  parted  huge  friends,  he  still  keeping  me  up 
to  visiting  him. 

Hitherto,  I  had  enjoyed  myself  amazingly;  but 
to-day  has  been  the  crown.  In  the  morning  I  met 
Bough  on  board,  with  whom  I  am  both  surprised  and 
delighted.  He  and  I  have  read  the  same  books,  and 
discuss  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Marlowe,  Fletcher, 
Webster,  and  all  the  old  authors.  He  can  quote 
verses  by  the  page,  and  has  really  a  very  pretty  literary 
taste.  Altogether,  with  all  his  roughness  and  buf- 
foonery, a  more  pleasant,  clever  fellow  you  may  sel- 
dom see.  I  was  very  much  surprised  with  him;  and 
he  with  me.  '  Where  the  devil  did  you  read  all  these 
books?'  says  he;  and  in  my  heart,  I  echo  the  ques- 
tion. One  amusing  thing  I  must  say.  We  were 
both  talking  about  travelling;  and  I  said  I  was  so 
fond  of  travelling  alone,  from  the  people  one  met 
and  grew  friendly  with.  'Ah,'  says  he,  'but  you've 
such  a  pleasant  manner,  you  know — quite  captivated 
my  old  woman,  you  did — she  couldn't  talk  of  any- 
thing else.'  Here  was  a  compliment,  even  in  Sam 
Bough's  sneering  tones,  that  rather  tickled  my  van- 
ity; and  really,  my  social  successes  of  the  last  few 
days,  the  best  of  which  is  yet  to  come,  are  enough  to 
turn  anybody's  head.     To  continue,  after  a  little  go 


30  LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [.S70 

in  with  Samuel,  he  going  up  on  the  bridge,  I  looked 
about  me  to  see  who  there  was;  and  mine  eye  lighted 
on  two  girls,  one  of  whom  was  sweet  and  pretty,  talk- 
ing to  an  old  gentleman.  '  Eh  bien,^  says  I  to  myself, 
'that  seems  the  best  investment  on  board.'  So  I 
sidled  up  to  the  old  gentleman,  got  into  conversation 
with  him  and  so  with  the  damsel;  and  thereupon, 
having  used  the  patriarch  as  a  ladder,  I  kicked  him 
down  behind  me.  Who  should  my  damsel  prove, 
but  Amy  Sinclair,  daughter  of  Sir  Tollemache.  She 
certainly  was  the  simplest,  most  naive  specimen  of 
girlhood  ever  I  saw.  By  getting  brandy  and  biscuit 
and  generally  coaching  up  her  cousin,  who  was  sick, 
I  ingratiated  myself;  and  so  kept  her  the  whole  way 
to  lona,  taking  her  into  the  cave  at  StafTa  and  gen- 
erally making  myself  as  gallant  as  possible.  I  was 
never  so  much  pleased  with  anything  in  my  life,  as 
her  amusing  absence  of  mauvaise  honte:  she  was  so 
sorry  I  wasn't  going  on  to  Oban  again:  didn't  know 
how  she  could  have  enjoyed  herself  if  I  hadn't  been 
there;  and  was  so  sorry  we  hadn't  met  on  the  Crinan. 
When  we  came  back  from  Staffa,  she  and  her  aunt 
went  down  to  have  lunch;  and  a  minute  after  up 
comes  Miss  Amy  to  ask  me  if  I  wouldn't  think  better 
of  it,  and  take  some  lunch  with  them.  I  couldn't 
resist  that,  of  course,  so  down  I  went;  and  there  she 
displayed  the  full  extent  of  her  innocence.  I  must 
be  sure  to  come  to  Thurso  Castle  the  next  time  I 
was  in  Caithness,  and  Upper  Norwood  (whence  she 
would  take  me  all  over  the  Crystal  Palace)  when  I 
was  near  London;  and  (most  complete  of  all)  she 
offered  to  call  on  us  in  Edinburgh!     Wasn't  it  deli- 


AET.  20]  MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON       31 

cious  ? — she  is  a  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  too,  and 
the  latter  I  think.  I  never  yet  saw  a  girl  so  innocent 
and  fresh,  so  perfectly  modest  without  the  least  trace 
of  prudery. 

Coming  off  Staffa,  Sam  Bough,  who  had  been  in 
huge  force  the  whole  time,  drawing  in  Miss  Amy's 
sketch-book  and  making  himself  agreeable  or  other- 
wise to  everybody,  pointed  me  out  to  a  parson  and 
said,  'That's  him.'  This  was  Alexander  Ross  and 
his  wife. 

The  last  stage  of  the  steamer  now  approached, 
Miss  Amy  and  I  lamenting  pathetically  that  lona 
was  so  near.  'People  meet  in  this  way,'  quoth  she, 
'and  then  lose  sight  of  one  another  so  soon.'  We 
all  landed  together,  Bough  and  I  and  the  Rosses  with 
our  baggage;  and  went  together  over  the  ruins.  I 
was  here  left  with  the  cousin  and  the  aunt,  during 
which  I  learned  that  said  cousin  sees  me  every  Sunday 
in  St.  Stephen's.  Oho!  thought  I,  at  the  'every.' 
The  aunt  was  very  anxious  to  know  who  that  strange, 
wild  man  was  (didn't  I  wish  Samuel  in  Tophet!) 
Of  course,  in  reply,  I  drew  it  strong  about  eccentric 
genius  and  my  never  having  known  him  before,  and 
a  good  deal  that  was  perhaps  'strained  to  the  ex- 
tremest  limit  of  the  fact.' 

The  steamer  left,  and  Miss  Amy  and  her  cousin 
waved  their  handkerchiefs,  until  my  arm  in  answer- 
ing them  was  nearly  broken.  I  believe  women's 
arms  must  be  better  made  for  this  exercise:  mine 
ache  still;  and  I  regretted  at  the  time  that  the  hand- 
kerchief had  seen  service.  Altogether,  however,  I 
was  left  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind. 


^1  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [1870 

Being  thus  left  alone,  Bough,  I,  the  Rosses,  Pro- 
fessor Blackic,  and  an  Englishman  called  M, 


these  people  were  going  to  remain  the  night,  except 
the  Professor,  who  is  resident  there  at  present.  They 
were  going  to  dine  en  compagnie  and  wished  us  to 
join  the  party;  but  we  had  already  committed  our- 
selves by  mistake  to  the  wrong  hotel,  and  besides, 
we  wished  to  be  off  as  soon  as  wind  and  time  were 
against  us  to  Earraid.  We  went  up;  Bough  selected 
a  place  for  sketching  and  blocked  in  the  sketch  for 
Mrs.  R.;  and  we  all  talked  together.  Bough  told 
us  his  family  history  and  a  lot  of  strange  things  about 
old  Cumberland  life;  among  others,  how  he  had 
known  'John  Peel'  of  pleasant  memory  in  song,  and 
of  how  that  worthy  hunted.  At  five,  down  we  go  to 
the  Argyll  Hotel,  and  wait  dinner.  Broth — 'nice 
broth ' — fresh  herrings,  and  fowl  had  been  promised. 
At  5.50,  I  get  the  shovel  and  tongs  and  drum  them 
at  the  stair-head  till  a  response  comes  from  below 
that  the  nice  broth  is  at  hand.  I  boast  of  my  engi- 
neering, and  Bough  compares  me  to  the  Abbott  of 
Arbroath  who  originated  the  Inchcape  Bell.  At 
last,  in  comes  the  tureen  and  the  hand-maid  lifts  the 
cover.  'Rice  soup!'  I  yell;  'O  no!  none  o'  that  for 
me!' — 'Yes,'  says  Bough  savagely;  'but  Miss  Amy 
didn't  take  me  downstairs  to  eat  salmon.'  Accord- 
ingly he  is  helped.  How  his  face  fell.  'I  imagine 
myself  in  the  accident  ward  of  the  Infirmary,'  quoth 
he.  It  was,  purely  and  simply,  rice  and  water. 
After  this,  we  have  another  weary  pause,  and  then 
herrings  in  a  state  of  mash  and  potatoes  like  iron. 
'Send  the  potatoes  out  to  Prussia  for  grape-shot,' 


AET  .o]    MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON        33 

was  the  suggestion.  I  dined  off  broken  herrings  and 
dry  bread.  At  last  'the  supreme  moment  comes,' 
and  the  fowl  in  a  lordly  dish  is  carried  in.  On  the 
cover  being  raised,  there  is  something  so  forlorn  and 
miserable  about  the  aspect  of  the  animal  that  we  both 
roar  with  laughter.  Then  Bough,  taking  up  knife 
and  fork,  turns  the  'swarry'  over  and  over,  shaking 
doubtfully  his  head.  'There's  an  aspect  of  quiet  re- 
sistance about  the  beggar,'  says  he,  'that  looks  bad.' 
However,  to  work  he  falls  until  the  sweat  stands  on 
his  brow  and  a  dismembered  leg  falls,  dull  and 
leaden-like,  on  to  my  dish.  To  eat  it  was  simply 
impossible.  I  did  not  know  before  that  flesh  could 
be  so  tough.  'The  strongest  jaws  in  England,'  says 
Bough  piteously,  harpooning  his  dry  morsel,  'couldn't 
eat  this  leg  in  less  than  twelve  hours.'  Nothing  for 
it  now,  but  to  order  boat  and  bill.  'That  fowl,'  says 
Bough  to  the  landlady,  'is  of  a  breed  I  know.  I 
knew  the  cut  of  its  jib  whenever  it  was  put  down. 
That  was  the  grandmother  of  the  cock  that  fright- 
ened Peter.' — 'I  thought  it  was  a  historical  animal,' 
says  I.  'What  a  shame  to  kill  it.  It's  as  bad  as 
eating  Whittington's  cat  or  the  Dog  of  Montargis.' — 
'Na — na,  it's  no  so  old,'  says  the  landlady,  'but  it 
eats  hard.' — 'Eats!'  I  cry,  'where  do  you  find  that? 
Very  little  of  that  verb  with  us.'  So  with  more 
raillery,  we  pay  six  shillings  for  our  festival  and  run 
over  to  Earraid,  shaking  the  dust  of  the  Argyll  Hotel 
from  off  our  feet. 

I  can  write  no  more  just  now,  and  I  hope  you  will 
be  able  to  decipher  so  much;  for  it  contains  matter. 
Really,  the  whole  of  yesterday's  work  would  do  in  a 


34  LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [1871 

novel  without  one  little  bit  of  embellishment;  and, 
indeed,  few  novels  are  so  amusing.     Bough,  Miss 

Amy,  ;Mrs.   Ross,  Blackic,  M the  parson — all 

these  were  such  distinct  characters,  the  incidents 
were  so  entertaining,  and  the  scenery  so  fme,  that 
the  whole  would  have  made  a  novelist's  fortune. 

MY  DEAR  FATHER, — Xo  landing  to-day,  as  the  sea 
runs  high  on  the  rock.  They  are  at  the  second  course 
of  the  first  story  on  the  rock.  I  have  as  yet  had  no 
time  here;  so  this  is  a  and  w  of  my  business  news. — 
Your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Churchill  Babington 

This  is  addressed  to  a  favourite  rousin  of  the  Balfour  rlan,  mar- 
ried to  a  Cambridge  colleague  of  mine,  Professor  Churchill  Babing- 
ton of  learned  and  amiable  memory,  whose  home  was  at  the  college 
living  of  Cockfield  near  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  Here  Stevenson  had 
visited  them  in  the  previous  year.  'Mrs.  Hutchinson'  is,  of  course, 
Lucy  Hutchinson's  famous  Life  of  her  husband  the  regicide. 

[Swanslon  Collage,  Lolhianburn,  Summer  187 1] 

MY  DEAR  MAUD, — If  you  have  forgotten  the  hand- 
writing— as  is  like  enough — you  will  find  the  name 
of  a  former  correspondent  (don't  know  how  to  spell 
that  word)  at  the  end.  I  have  begun  to  write  to  you 
before  now,  but  always  stuck  somehow,  and  left  it 
to  drown  in  a  drawerful  of  like  fiascos.  This  time  I 
am  determined  to  carry  through,  though  I  have 
nothing  specially  to  say. 

We  look  fairly  like  summer  this  morning;  the  trees 
are  blackening  out  of  their  spring  greens;  the  warmer 


AEx.  21]  MRS.  CHURCHILL  BABINGTON  35 

suns  have  melted  the  hoarfrost  of  daisies  of  the  pad- 
dock; and  the  blackbird,  I  fear,  already  beginning 
to  'stint  his  pipe  of  mellower  days' — which  is  very 
apposite  (I  can't  spell  anything  to-dsiy— one  p  or 
two  ?)  and  pretty.  All  the  same,  we  have  been  hav- 
ing shocking  weather— cold  winds  and  grey  skies. 

I  have  been  reading  heaps  of  nice  books;  but  I 
can't  go  back  so  far.  I  am  reading  Clarendon's 
Hist.  Rebell.  at  present,  with  which  I  am  more 
pleased  than  I  expected,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
It  is  a  pet  idea  of  mine  that  one  gets  more  real  truth 
out  of  one  avowed  partisan  than  out  of  a  dozen  of 
your  sham  impartialists— wolves  in  sheep's  clothing 
—simpering  honesty  as  they  suppress  documents. 
After  all,  what  one  wants  to  know  is  not  what  people 
did,  but  why  they  did  it— or  rather,  why  they  thought 
they  did  it;  and  to  learn  that,  you  should  go  to  the 
men  themselves.  Their  very  falsehood  is  often  more 
than  another  man's  truth. 

I  have  possessed  myself  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson, 
which,  of  course,  I  admire,  etc.  But  is  there  not  an 
irritating  deliberation  and  correctness  about  her  and 
everybody  connected  with  her?  If  she  would  only 
write  bad  grammar,  or  forget  to  finish  a  sentence,  or 
do  something  or  other  that  looks  fallible,  it  would 
be  a  relief.  I  sometimes  wish  the  old  Colonel  had 
got  drunk  and  beaten  her,  in  the  bitterness  of  my 
spirit.  I  know  I  felt  a  weight  taken  off  my  heart 
when  I  heard  he  was  extravagant.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible to  be  too  good  for  this  evil  world;  and  unques- 
tionably, Mrs.  Hutchinson  was.  The  way  in  which 
she  talks  of  herself  makes  one's  blood  run  cold. 


36         LETTERS  OE  STEVENSON      [.S71 

There — I  am  glad  to  have  got  that  out — but  don't 
say  it  to  anybody — seal  of  secrecy. 

Please  tell  Mr.  Babington  that  I  have  never  for- 
gotten one  of  his  drawings — a  Rubens,  I  think — a 
woman  holding  up  a  model  ship.  That  woman  had 
more  life  in  her  than  ninety  per  cent,  of  the  lame 
humans  that  you  see  crippling  about  this  earth. 

By  the  way,  that  is  a  feature  in  art  which  seems 
to  have  come  in  with  the  Italians.  Your  old  Greek 
statues  have  scarce  enough  vitality  in  them  to  keep 
their  monstrous  bodies  fresh  withal.  A  shrewd 
country  attorney,  in  a  turned  white  neckcloth  and 
rusty  blacks,  would  just  take  one  of  these  Agamem- 
nons  and  Ajaxcs  quietly  by  his  beautiful,  strong  arm, 
trot  the  unresisting  statue  down  a  little  gallery  of 
legal  shams,  and  turn  the  poor  fellow  out  at  the  other 
end,  'naked,  as  from  the  earth  he  came.'  There  is 
more  latent  life,  more  of  the  coiled  spring  in  the 
sleeping  dog,  about  a  recumbent  figure  of  Michael 
Angelo's  than  about  the  most  excited  of  Greek 
statues.  The  very  marble  seems  to  wrinkle  with  a 
wild  energy  that  we  never  feel  except  in  dreams. 

I  think  this  letter  has  turned  into  a  sermon,  but  I 
had  nothing  interesting  to  talk  about. 

I  do  wish  you  and  Mr.  Babington  would  think 
better  of  it  and  come  north  this  summer.  We  should 
be  so  glad  to  see  you  both.  Do  reconsider  it.— Believe 
me,   my   dear  Maud,   ever  your  most  affectionate 

cousin, 

Louis  Stevenson 


AET.  21]      ALISON  CUNNINGHAM  37 


To  Alison  Cunningham 

The  following  is  the  first  which  has  been  preserved  of  many  letters 
to  the  admirable  nurse  whose  care,  during  his  ailing  childhood, 
had  done  so  much  both  to  preserve  Stevenson's  life  and  awaken 
his  love  of  tales  and  poetry,  and  of  whom  until  his  death  he  thought 
with  the  utmost  constancy  of  affection.  The  letter  bears  no  sign 
of  date  or  place,  but  by  the  handwriting  would  seem  to  belong  to 
this  year: — 

187 1? 

MY  DEAR  CUMMY, — I  was  greatly  pleased  by  your 
letter  in  many  ways.  Of  course,  I  was  glad  to  hear 
from  you;  you  know  you  and  I  have  so  many  old 
stories  between  us,  that  even  if  there  was  nothing  else, 
even  if  there  was  not  a  very  sincere  respect  and  affec- 
tion, we  should  always  be  glad  to  pass  a  nod.  I  say, 
'even  if  there  was  not.'  But  you  know  right  well 
there  is.  Do  not  suppose  that  I  shall  ever  forget 
those  long,  bitter  nights,  when  I  coughed  and  coughed 
and  was  so  unhappy,  and  you  were  so  patient  and 
loving  with  a  poor,  sick  child.  Indeed,  Cummy,  I 
wish  I  might  become  a  man  worth  talking  of,  if  it 
were  only  that  you  should  not  have  thrown  away 
your  pains. 

Happily,  it  is  not  the  result  of  our  acts  that  makes 
them  brave  and  noble,  but  the  acts  themselves  and 
the  unselfish  love  that  moved  us  to  do  them.  'In- 
asmuch as  you  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of 
these.'  My  dear  old  nurse,  and  you  know  there  is 
nothing  a  man  can  say  nearer  his  heart  except  his 
mother  or  his  wife — my  dear  old  nurse,  God  will 
make  good  to  you  all  the  good  that  you  have  done, 
and  mercifully  forgive  you  all  the  evil.  And  next 
time  when  the  spring  comes  round,  and  everything 


38  LK'l  TIlRS   of   SiKVENSON      [.87. 

is  beginning  once  again,  if  you  should  happen  to 
think  that  you  might  have  luid  a  child  of  your  own, 
and  that  it  was  hard  you  should  have  spent  so  many 
years  taking  care  of  some  one  else's  prodigal,  just 
you  think  this — you  have  been  for  a  great  deal  in 
my  life;  you  have  made  much  that  there  is  in  me, 
just  as  surely  as  if  you  had  conceived  me;  and  there 
are  sons  who  are  more  ungrateful  to  their  own 
mothers  than  I  am  to  you.  For  I  am  not  ungrate- 
ful, my  dear  Cummy,  and  it  is  with  a  very  sincere 
emotion  that  I  write  myself  your  little  boy, 

Louis 

To  Charles  Baxter 

After  a  winter  of  troubled  health,  Stevenson  had  gone  to  Dun- 
blane for  a  change  in  early  spring;  and  thence  writes  to  his  college 
companion  and  lifelong  friend,  Mr.  Charles  Baxter: — 

Dunblane,  Friday,  5/A  March  1872 

MY  DEAR  BAXTER, — By  the  date  you  may  perhaps 
understand  the  purport  of  my  letter  without  any 
words  wasted  about  the  matter.  I  cannot  walk  with 
you  to-morrow,  and  you  must  not  e.xpect  me.  I 
came  yesterday  afternoon  to  Bridge  of  Allan,  and 
have  been  very  happy  ever  since,  as  every  place  is 
sanctified  by  the  eighth  sense.  Memory.  I  walked 
up  here  this  morning  (three  miles,  tu-dieu!  a  good 
stretch  for  me),  and  passed  one  of  my  favourite 
places  in  the  world,  and  one  that  I  very  much  affect 
in  spirit  when  the  body  is  tied  down  and  brought 
immovably  to  anchor  on  a  sickbed.  It  is  a  meadow 
and  bank  on  a  corner  on  the  river,  and  is  connected 
in  my  mind  inseparably  with  Virgil's  Eclogues.    Hie 


AET.  2.]  CHARLES   BAXTER  39 

corulis  mistos  inter  consedimus  uhnos,  or  something 
very  like  that,  the  passage  begins  (only  I  know  my 
short-winded  Latinity  must  have  come  to  grief  over 
even  this  much  of  quotation);  and  here,  to  a  wish, 
is  just  such  a  cavern  as  Menalcas  might  shelter  him- 
self withal  from  the  bright  noon,  and,  with  his  lips 
curled  backward,  pipe  himself  blue  in  the  face,  while 
Messieurs  les  Arcadiens  would  roll  out  those  cloying 
hexameters  that  sing  themselves  in  one's  mouth  to 
such  a  curious  lilting  chant. 

In  such  weather  one  has  the  bird's  need  to  whistle; 
and  I,  who  am  specially  incompetent  in  this  art, 
must  content  myself  by  chattering  away  to  you  on, 
this  bit  of  paper.  All  the  way  along  I  was  thanking 
God  that  he  had  made  me  and  the  birds  and  every- 
thing just  as  they  are  and  not  otherwise,  for  although 
there  was  no  sun,  the  air  was  so  thrilled  with  robins 
and  blackbirds  that  it  made  the  heart  tremble  with 
joy,  and  the  leaves  are  far  enough  forward  on  the 
underwood  to  give  a  fine  promise  for  the  future. 
Even  myself,  as  I  say,  I  would  not  have  had  changed 
in  one  iota  this  forenoon,  in  spite  of  all  my  idleness 
and  Guthrie's  lost  paper,  which  is  ever  present  with 
me — a  horrible  phantom. 

No  one  can  be  alone  at  home  or  in  a  quite  new 
place.  Memory  and  you  must  go  hand  in  hand  with 
fat  least)  decent  weather  if  you  wish  to  cook  up  a 
proper  dish  of  solitude.  It  is  in  these  little  flights  of 
mine  that  I  get  more  pleasure  than  in  anything  else. 
Now,  at  present,  I  am  supremely  uneasy  and  restless 
—almost  to  the  extent  of  pain;  but  O!  how  I  enjoy 
it,  and  how  I  shall  enjoy  it  afterwards  (please  God), 
if  I  get  years  enough  allotted  to  me  for  the  thing  to 


40  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [1872 

ripen  in.  When  I  am  a  very  old  and  very  respectable 
citizen  with  white  hair  and  bland  manners  and  a  gold 
watch,  I  shall  hear  three  crows  cawing  in  my  heart, 
as  I  heard  them  this  morning:  I  vote  for  old  age  and 
eighty  years  of  retrospect.  Yet,  after  all,  I  dare  say, 
a  short  shrift  and  a  nice  green  grave  are  about  as 
desirable. 

Poor  devil!  how  I  am  wearying  you!  Cheer  up. 
Two  pages  more,  and  my  letter  reaches  its  term,  for 
I  have  no  more  paper.  What  delightful  things  inns 
and  waiters  and  bagmen  are!  If  we  didn't  travel 
now  and  then,  we  should  forget  what  the  feeling  of 
life  is.  The  very  cushion  of  a  railway  carriage — 
'the  things  restorative  to  the  touch.'  I  can't  write, 
confound  it!  That's  because  I  am  so  tired  with  my 
walk.  .  .  .  Believe  me,  ever  your  affectionate  friend, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  Charles  Baxter 

The  'Spec'  is,  of  course,  the  famous  and  historical  debating 
society  (the  Speculative  Society)  of  Edinburgh  University,  to  which 
Stevenson  had  been  elected  on  the  strength  of  his  conversational 
powers,  and  to  whose  meetings  he  contributed  several  essays. 

Dunblane,  Tuesday,  gift  April  1872 

MY  DEAR  BAXTER, — I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
I  know  nothing  about  the  Standing  Committee  of  the 
Spec,  did  not  know  that  such  a  body  existed,  and 
even  if  it  doth  exist,  must  sadly  repudiate  all  asso- 
ciation with  such  'goodly  fellowship.'  I  am  a 
'Rural  V^oluptuary'  at  present.  Thai  is  what  is  the 
matter  with  me.  The  Spec,  may  go  whistle.  As 
for  'C.  Baxter,  Esq.,'  who  is  he?''  'One  Baxter,  or 
Bagster,  a  secretary,'  I  say  to  mine  acquaintance. 


AET.  22]         CHARLES   BAXTER  41 

'is  at  present  disquieting  my  leisure  with  certain  il- 
legal, uncharitable,  unchristian,  and  unconstitutional 
documents  called  Business  Letters:  The  affair  is  in 
the  hands  of  the  Police.''  Do  you  hear  that,  you  evil- 
doer ?  Sending  business  letters  is  surely  a  far  more 
hateful  and  slimy  degree  of  wickedness  than  send- 
ing threatening  letters;  the  man  who  throws  grenades 
and  torpedoes  is  less  malicious;  the  Devil  in  red-hot 
hell  rubs  his  hands  with  glee  as  he  reckons  up  the 
number  that  go  forth  spreading  pain  and  anxiety 
with  each  delivery  of  the  post. 

I  have  been  walking  to-day  by  a  colonnade  of 
beeches  along  the  brawling  Allan.  My  character  for 
sanity  is  quite  gone,  seeing  that  I  cheered  my  lonely 
way  with  the  following,  in  a  triumphant  chaunt: 
'Thank  God  for  the  grass,  and  the  fir-trees,  and  the 
crows,  and  the  sheep,  and  the  sunshine,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  fir-trees.'  I  hold  that  he  is  a  poor 
mean  devil  who  can  walk  alone,  in  such  a  place  and 
in  such  weather,  and  doesn't  set  up  his  lungs  and  cry 
back  to  the  birds  and  the  river.  Follow,  follow,  fol- 
low me.  Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither — 
here  shall  you  see — no  enemy — except  a  very  slight 
remnant  of  winter  and  its  rough  weather.  My  bed- 
room, when  I  awoke  this  morning,  was  full  of  bird- 
songs,  which  is  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life.  Come 
hither,  come  hither,  come  hither,  and  when  you  come 
bring  the  third  part  of  the  Earthly  Paradise;  you  can 
get  it  for  me  in  Elliot's  for  two  and  tenpence  (2s.  lod.) 
{business  habits).  Also  bring  an  ounce  of  honeydew 
from  Wilson's. 


XV*     J-d»     O* 


42  LETTKRS   OF   STEVENSON      [187a 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

In  the  previous  year,  187 1,  it  had  become  .-'.pparent  that  Stevenson 
was  neither  fitted  by  bodily  health  nor  by  i:.clination  for  the  family 
profession  of  civil  engineer.  Accordingly  his  summer  excursions 
were  no  longer  to  the  harbour  works  and  lighthouses  of  Scotland, 
but  to  the  ordinary  scenes  of  holiday  travel  abroad. 

Brussels,  Thursday,  25/A  July  1872 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  am  here  at  last,  sitting  in  my 
room,  without  coat  or  waistcoat,  and  with  both  win- 
dow and  door  open,  and  yet  perspiring  hke  a  terra- 
cotta jug  or  a  Gruyerc  cheese. 

We  had  a  very  good  passage,  which  we  certainly 
deserved,  in  compensation  for  having  to  sleep  on  the 
cabin  floor,  and  finding  absolutely  nothing  fit  for 
human  food  in  the  whole  filthy  embarkation.  We 
made  up  for  lost  time  by  sleeping  on  deck  a  good  part 
of  the  forenoon.  When  I  woke,  Simpson  was  still 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just,  on  a  coil  of  ropes  and 
(as  appeared  afterwards)  his  own  hat;  so  I  got  a 
bottle  of  Bass  and  a  pipe  and  laid  hold  of  an  old 
Frenchman  of  somewhat  filthy  aspect  [fiat  experi- 
mentuni  in  cor  pore  vili)  to  try  my  French  upon.  I 
made  very  heavy  weather  of  it.  The  Frenchman 
had  a  very  pretty  young  wife;  but  my  French  always 
deserted  me  entirely  when  I  had  to  answer  her,  and 
so  she  soon  drew  away  and  left  me  to  her  lord,  who 
talked  of  French  politics,  Africa,  and  domestic  econ- 
omy with  great  vivacity.  From  Ostend  a  smoking- 
hot  journey  to  Brussels.  At  Brussels  we  went  off 
after  dinner  to  the  Pare.  If  any  person  wants  to  be 
happy,  I  should  advise  the  Pare.     You  sit  drinking 


AET.  22]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON      43 

iced  drinks  and  smoking  penny  cigars  under  great 
old  trees.  The  band  place,  covered  walks,  etc.,  are 
all  lit  up.  And  you  can't  fancy  how  beautiful  was 
the  contrast  of  the  great  masses  of  lamplit  foliage 
"and  the  dark  sapphire  night  sky  with  just  one  blue 
star  set  overhead  in  the  middle  of  the  largest  patch. 
In  the  dark  walks,  too,  there  are  crowds  of  people 
whose  faces  you  cannot  see,  and  here  and  there  a 
colossal  white  statue  at  the  corner  of  an  alley  that 
gives  the  place  a  nice,  artificial,  eighteenth  century 
sentiment.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  summer  light- 
ning blinking  overhead,  and  the  black  avenues  and 
white  statues  leapt  out  every  minute  into  short-lived 
distinctness. 

I  get  up  to  add  one  thing  more.  There  is  in  the 
hotel  a  boy  in  whom  I  take  the  deepest  interest.  I 
cannot  tell  you  his  age,  but  the  very  first  time  I  saw 
him  (when  I  was  at  dinner  yesterday)  I  was  very 
much  struck  with  his  appearance.  There  is  some- 
thing very  leonine  in  his  face,  with  a  dash  of  the  negro 
especially,  if  I  remember  aright,  in  the  mouth.  He 
has  a  great  quantity  of  dark  hair,  curling  in  great 
rolls,  not  in  little  corkscrews,  and  a  pair  of  large, 
dark,  and  very  steady,  bold,  bright  eyes.  His  man- 
ners are  those  of  a  prince.  I  felt  like  an  overgrown 
ploughboy  beside  him.  He  speaks  English  perfectly, 
but  with,  I  think,  sufficient  foreign  accent  to  stamp 
him  as  a  Russian,  especially  when  his  manners  are 
taken  into  account.  I  dou't  think  I  ever  saw  any 
one  who  looked  like  a  hero  before.  After  breakfast 
this  morning,  I  was  talking  to  him  in  the  court,  when 
he  mentioned  casually  that  he  had  caught  a  snake  in 


44  LETTERS   OE   SIEVENSON      [.872 

the  Ricscngcbirgc.  *I  have  it  here,'  he  said;  'would 
you  like  to  see  it?'  I  said  yes;  and  putting  his  hand 
into  his  breast-pocket,  he  drew  forth  not  a  dried 
serpent  skin,  but  the  head  and  neck  of  the  reptile 
writhing  and  shooting  out  its  horrible  tongue  in  my 
face.  You  may  conceive  what  a  fright  I  got.  I 
send  off  this  single  sheet  just  now  in  order  to  let  you 
know  I  am  safe  across;   but  you  must  not  expect 

^^"^^^  «^^^"-  R.  L.  Stevenson 

P.  S. — The  snake  was  about  a  yard  long,  but 
harmless,  and  now,  he  says,  quite  tame. 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

Hotel  La)tdsherg,  Fratikftirl, 
Monday,  2()th  July  1872 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  met  with  rather  an  amusing 
adventurette.  Seeing  a  church  door  open,  I  went 
in,  and  was  led  by  most  importunate  finger-bills  up 
a  long  stair  to  the  top  of  the  tower.  The  father 
smoking  at  the  door,  the  mother  and  the  three  daugh- 
ters received  me  as  if  I  was  a  friend  of  the  family  and 
had  come  in  for  an  evening  visit.  The  youngest 
daughter  (about  thirteen,  I  suppose,  and  a  pretty 
little  girl)  had  been  learning  English  at  the  school, 
and  was  anxious  to  play  it  off  upon  a  real,  veritable 
Englander;  so  we  had  a  long  talk,  and  I  was  shown 
photographs,  etc.,  Marie  and  I  talking,  and  the  others 
looking  on  with  evident  delight  at  having  such  a 
linguist  in  the  family.  As  all  my  remarks  were  duly 
translated  and  communicated  to  the  rest,  it  was  quite 


AET.  22]  MRS.   THOMAS  STEVENSON      45 

a  good  German  lesson.  There  was  only  one  con- 
tretemps during  the  whole  interview — the  arrival  of 
another  visitor,  in  the  shape  (surely)  the  last  of  God's 
creatures,  a  wood-worm  of  the  most  unnatural  and 
hideous  appearance,  with  one  great  striped  horn 
sticking  out  of  his  nose  like  a  boltsprit.  If  there  are 
many  wood-worms  in  Germany,  I  shall  come  home. 
The  most  courageous  men  in  the  world  must  be  en- 
tomologists.    I  had  rather  be  a  lion-tamer. 

To-day  I  got  rather  a  curiosity — Lieder  und  Bal- 
laden  von  Robert  Burns,  translated  by  one  Silbergleit, 
and  not  so  ill  done  either.  Armed  with  which,  I  had 
a  swim  in  the  Main,  and  then  bread  and  cheese  and 
Bavarian  beer  in  a  sort  of  cafe,  or  at  least  the  German 
substitute  for  a  cafe;  but  what  a  falling  off  after  the 
heavenly  forenoons  in  Brussels! 

I  have  bought  a  meerschaum  out  of  local  senti- 
ment, and  am  now  very  low  and  nervous  about  the 
bargain,  having  paid  dearer  than  I  should  in  England, 
and  got  a  worse  article,  if  I  can  form  a  judgment. 

Do  write  some  more,  somebody.  To-morrow  I 
expect  I  shall  go  into  lodgings,  as  this  hotel  work 
makes  the  money  disappear  like  butter  in  a  furnace. 
— Meanwhile  beheve  me,  ever  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

Hotel  Landsberg,  Thursday,  ist  August  1872 

.  .  .  Yesterday  I  walked  to  Eckenheim,  a  village 
a  little  way  out  of  Frankfurt,  and  turned  into  the  ale- 
house.    In  the  room,  which  was  just  such  as  it  would 


46         LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.872 

have  been  in  Scotland,  were  the  landlady,  two  neigh- 
bours, and  an  old  peasant  eating  raw  sausage  at  the 
far  end.  I  soon  got  into  conversation;  and  was  as- 
tonished when  the  landlady,  having  asked  whether  I 
were  an  Englishman,  and  received  an  answer  in  the 
athrmative,  proceeded  to  inquire  further  whether  1 
were  not  also  a  Scotchman.  It  turned  out  that  a 
Scotch  doctor — a  professor— a  poet — who  wrote 
books — gross  wie  das — had  come  nearly  every  day 
out  of  Frankfurt  to  the  Eckenheimcr  Wirthscliafl, 
and  had  left  behind  him  a  most  savoury  memory  in 
the  hearts  of  all  its  customers.  One  man  ran  out  to 
find  his  name  for  me,  and  returned  with  the  news 
that  it  was  Cobie  (Scobie,  I  suspect);  and  during  his 
absence  the  rest  were  pouring  into  my  ears  the  fame 
and  acquirements  of  my  countryman.  He  was,  in 
some  undecipherable  manner,  connected  with  the 
Queen  of  England  and  one  of  the  Princesses.  He 
had  been  in  Turkey,  and  had  there  married  a  wife 
of  immense  wealth.  They  could  find  apparently  no 
measure  adequate  to  express  the  size  of  his  books. 
In  one  way  or  another,  he  had  amassed  a  princely 
fortune,  and  had  apparently  only  one  sorrow,  his 
daughter  to  wit,  who  had  absconded  into  a  Kloster, 
with  a  considerable  slice  of  the  mother's  Geld.  I 
told  them  we  had  no  Klosters  in  Scotland,  with  a 
certain  feeling  of  superiority.  No  more  had  they,  I 
was  told — ' Hier  ist  unser  Kloster!^  and  the  speaker 
motioned  with  both  arms  round  the  taproom.  Al- 
though the  first  torrent  was  exhausted,  yet  the 
Doctor  came  up  again  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  and  with 
or  without  occasion,  throughout  the  whole  interview; 


AET.     22 


]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON      47 


as,  for  example,  when  one  man,  taking  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  and  shaking  his  head,  remarked  apropos 
of  nothing  and  with  almost  defiant  conviction,  '  Er 
war  ein  feiner  Mann,  der  Herr  Doctor,^  and  was 
answered  by  another  with  '  Yaw,  yaw,  und  trank 
immer  rothen  Wein.^ 

Setting  aside  the  Doctor,  who  had  evidently  turned 
the  brains  of  the  entire  village,  they  were  intelligent 
people.  One  thing  in  particular  struck  me,  their 
honesty  in  admitting  that  here  they  spoke  bad  Ger- 
man, and  advising  me  to  go  to  Coburg  or  Leipsic  for 
German. — ^ Sie  sprechen  da  rein''  (clean),  said  one; 
and  they  all  nodded  their  heads  together  like  as 
many  mandarins,  and  repeated  rein,  so  rein  in  chorus. 

Of  course  we  got  upon  Scotland.  The  hostess  said, 
'  Die  Schottldnder  trinken  gem  Schnapps,'  which  may 
be  freely  translated,  'Scotchmen  are  horrid  fond  of 
whisky.'  It  was  impossible,  of  course,  to  combat 
such  a  truism;  and  so  I  proceeded  to  explain  the 
construction  of  toddy,  interrupted  by  a  cry  of  horror 
when  I  mentioned  the  hot  water;  and  thence,  as  I 
find  is  always  the  case,  to  the  most  ghastly  romancing 
about  Scottish  scenery  and  manners,  the  Highland 
dress,  and  everything  national  or  local  that  I  could 
lay  my  hands  upon.  Now  that  I  have  got  my  Ger- 
man Burns,  I  lean  a  good  deal  upon  him  for  opening 
a  conversation,  and  read  a  few  translations  to  every 
yawning  audience  that  I  can  gather.  I  am  grown 
most  insufferably  national,  you  see.  I  fancy  it  is  a 
punishment  for  my  want  of  it  at  ordinary  times. 
Now,  what  do  you  think,  there  was  a  waiter  in  this 
very  hotel,  but,  alas!  he  is  now  gone,  who  sang  (from 


48  LKTTKRS   OF   STEVENSON      [.s?-- 

morning  to  ni^ht,  as  my  informant  said  with  a  shrug 
at  the  recollection)  what  but  '5  isl  lange  her,  the 
German  version  of  Auld  Lang  Syne;  so  you  see, 
madame,  the  finest  Ivric  ever  written  will  make  its 
way  out  of  whatsoever  corner  of  patois  it  found  its 
birth  in. 

^}friit  Ifrrz  ist  im  Horhhind,  mein  ITcrz  isl  nkht  hicr, 
Mdii  lltrz  ist  im  Ilochland  im  ^riiurn  Rn'itr. 
Im  f^rihtcn  Rn'icre  zii  jaf^rn  das  Rrli; 
Mein  llrrz  ist  im  Ilochland,  wo  immer  ich  geli.' 

I  don't  lb  ink  I  need  translate  that  for  you. 

There  is  one  thing  that  jjurthcns  me  a  good  deal 
in  my  patriotic  garrulage,  and  that  is  the  black  ig- 
norance in  which  I  grope  about  everything,  as,  for 
example,  when  I  gave  yesterday  a  full  and,  I  fancy, 
a  startlingly  incorrect  account  of  Scotch  education 
to  a  very  stolid  German  on  a  garden  bench:  he  sat 
and  perspired  under  it,  however,  with  much  com- 
posure. I  am  generally  glad  enough  to  fall  back 
again,  after  these  political  interludes,  upon  Burns, 
toddy,  and  the  Highlands. 

I  go  every  night  to  the  theatre,  except  when  there 
is  no  opera.  I  cannot  stand  a  play  yet;  but  I  am 
already  very  much  improved,  and  can  understand  a 
good  deal  of  what  goes  on. 

Friday,  August  2,  1872. — In  the  evening,  at  the 
theatre,  I  had  a  great  laugh.  Lord  Allcash  in  Fra 
Diavolo,  with  his  white  hat,  red  guide-books,  and 
bad  German,  was  the  piecc-de-resislance  from  a 
humorous  point  of  view;   and  I  had  the  satisfaction 


..VET.  22]       THOMAS   STEVENSON  49 

of  knowing  that  in  my  own  small  way  I  could  min- 
ister the  same  amusement  whenever  I  chose  to  open 
my  mouth. 

I  am  just  going  off  to  do  some  German  with  Simp- 
son.— Your  affectionate  son, 

R.    L.    STEVIi:NSON 


To  Thomas  Stevenson 

Frankfurt,  Rosengasse  13,  August  4,  1872 
MY  DEAR  FATHER, — You  will  perceive  by  the  head 
of  this  page  that  we  have  at  last  got  into  lodgings, 
and  powerfully  mean  ones  too.  If  I  were  to  call  the 
street  anything  but  shady,  I  should  be  boasting. 
The  people  sit  at  their  doors  in  shirt-sleeves,  smoking 
as  they  do  in  Seven  Dials  of  a  Sunday. 

Last  night  we  went  to  bed  about  ten,  for  the  first 
time  householders  in  Germany — real  Teutons,  with 
no  deception,  spring,  or  false  bottom.  About  half- 
past  one  there  began  such  a  trumpeting,  shouting, 
pealing  of  bells,  and  scurrying  hither  and  thither  of 
feet  as  woke  every  person  in  Frankfurt  out  of  their 
first  sleep  with  a  vague  sort  of  apprehension  that  the 
last  day  was  at  hand.  The  whole  street  was  alive, 
and  we  could  hear  people  talking  in  their  rooms,  or 
crying  to  passers-by  from  their  windows,  all  around 
us.  At  last  I  made  out  what  a  man  \  is  saying  in 
the  next  room.  It  was  a  fire  in  Sachsenhausen,  he 
said  (Sachsenhausen  is  the  suburb  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Main) ,  and  he  wound  up  with  one  of  the  most 
tremendous  falsehoods  on  record,  '  Hier  alles  ruht — 
here  all  is  still.'     If  it  can  be  said  to  be  still  in  an 


50  Ij;r'lKRS   OF   STKVKNSON      [.872 

engine  factory,  or  in  the  stomach  of  a  volcano  when 
it  is  meditating  an  eruption,  he  might  have  been  jus- 
tified in  what  he  said,  but  not  otherwise.  The  tumult 
continued  unabated  for  near  an  hour;  but  as  one 
grew  used  to  it,  it  gradually  resolved  itself  into  three 
bells,  answering  each  other  at  short  intervals  across 
the  town,  a  man  shouting,  at  ever  shorter  intervals 
and  with  superhuman  energy,  '  Feiier — im  Sachsen- 
hausen,''  and  the  almost  continuous  winding  of  all 
manner  of  bugles  and  trumpets,  sometimes  in  stirring 
flourishes,  and  sometimes  in  mere  tuneless  wails. 
Occasionally  there  was  another  rush  of  feet  past  the 
window,  and  once  there  was  a  mighty  drumming, 
down  between  us  and  the  river,  as  though  the  soldiery 
were  turning  out  to  keep  the  peace.  This  was  all  we 
had  of  the  fire,  except  a  great  cloud,  all  flushed  red 
with  the  glare,  above  the  roofs  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Gasse;  but  it  was  quite  enough  to  put  me  en- 
tirely off  my  sleep  and  make  me  keenly  alive  to 
three  or  four  gentlemen  who  were  strolling  leisurely 
about  my  person,  and  every  here  and  there  leaving 
me  somewhat  as  a  keepsake.  .  .  ,  However,  every- 
thing has  its  compensation,  and  when  day  came  at 
last,  and  the  sparrows  awoke  with  trills  and  carol-els, 
the  dawn  seemed  to  fall  on  me  like  a  sleeping  draught. 
I  went  to  the  window  and  saw  the  sparrows  about  the 
eaves,  and  a  great  troop  of  doves  go  strolling  up  the 
paven  Gasse,  seeking  what  they  may  devour.  And 
so  to  sleep,  despite  fleas  and  fire-alarms  and  clocks 
chiming  the  hours  out  of  neighbouring  houses  at  all 
sorts  of  odd  times  and  with  the  most  charming  want 
of  unanimity. 


AET.  22]   MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON      51 

We  have  got  settled  down  in  Frankfurt,  and  like 
the  place  very  much.  Simpson  and  I  seem  to  get  on 
very  well  together.  We  suit  each  other  capitally; 
and  it  is  an  awful  joke  to  be  living  (two  would-be 
advocates,  and  one  a  baronet)  in  this  supremely 
mean  abode. 

The  abode  is,  however,  a  great  improvement  on 
the  hotel,  and  I  think  we  shall  grow  quite  fond  of  it. 
— Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

IT,  Rosengasse,  Frankfurt, 
Tuesday  Morning,  August  1872 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  was  at  the  theatre  and  heard 
Die  Judin  {La  Juive),  and  was  thereby  terribly  ex- 
cited. At  last,  in  the  middle  of  the  fifth  act,  which 
was  perfectly  beastly,  I  had  to  slope.  I  could  stand 
even  seeing  the  cauldron  with  the  sham  fire  beneath, 
and  the  two  hateful  executioners  in  red;  but  when 
at  last  the  girl's  courage  breaks  down,  and,  grasping 
her  father's  arm,  she  cries  out — O  so  shudderfully! 
— I  thought  it  high  time  to  be  out  of  that  galere, 
and  so  I  do  not  know  yet  whether  it  ends  well  or  ill; 
but  if  I  ever  afterwards  find  that  they  do  carry  things 
to  the  extremity,  I  shall  think  more  meanly  of  my 
species.  It  was  raining  and  cold  outside,  so  I  went 
into  a  Bierhalle,  and  sat  and  brooded  over  a  Schnitt 
(half-glass)  for  nearly  an  hour.  An  opera  is  far 
more  real  than  real  life  to  me.  It  seems  as  if  stage 
illusion,  and  particularly  this  hardest  to  swallow  and 
most  conventional  illusion  of  them  all — an  opera — - 


SI  LKITKRS  OF  STEVENSON      [.872 

would  never  stale  upon  me.  I  wish  that  life  was  an 
opera.  I  should  like  to  live  in  one;  but  I  don't 
know  in  what  quarter  of  the  globe  I  shall  find  a 
society  so  constituted.  Besides,  it  would  soon  pall: 
imagine  asking  for  thrce-kreuzer  cigars  in  recitative, 
or  giving  the  washerwoman  the  inventory  of  your 
dirty  clothes  in  a  sustained  and  /lourishous  aria. 

I  am  in  a  right  good  mood  this  morning  to  sit  here 
and  write  to  you;  but  not  to  give  you  news.  There 
is  a  great  stir  of  life,  in  a  quiet,  almost  country 
fashion,  all  about  us  here.  Some  one  is  hammering 
a  beef-steak  in  the  rez-de-chaussee:  there  is  a  great 
clink  of  pitchers  and  noise  of  the  pump-handle  at 
the  public  well  in  the  little  square-kin  round  the 
corner.  The  children,  all  seemingly  within  a  month, 
and  certainly  none  above  five,  that  always  go  halting 
and  stumbling  up  and  down  the  roadway,  are  ordi- 
narily very  quiet,  and  sit  sedately  puddling  in  the 
gutter,  trying,  I  suppose,  poor  little  devils!  to  under- 
stand their  MutterspracJie;  but  they,  too,  make  them- 
selves heard  from  time  to  time  in  little  incompre- 
hensible antiphonics,  about  the  drift  that  comes  down 
to  them  by  their  rivers  from  the  strange  lands  higher 
up  the  Gasse.  Above  all,  there  is  here  such  a  twit- 
tering of  canaries  (I  can  see  twelve  out  of  our  window) , 
and  such  continual  visitation  of  grey  doves  and  big- 
nosed  sparrows,  as  make  our  little  bye-street  into  a 
perfect  aviary. 

I  look  across  the  Gasse  at  our  opposite  ncighl)our, 
as  he  dandles  his  baby  about,  and  occasionally  takes 
a  spoonful  or  two  of  some  pale  slimy  nastiness  that 
looks  like  dead  porridge,  if  you  can  take  the  concep- 


AET.  22]  CHARLES   BAXTER  53 

tion.  These  two  are  his  only  occupations.  All  day 
long  you  can  hear  him  singing  over  the  brat  when  he 
is  not  eating;  or  see  him  eating  when  he  is  not  keep- 
ing baby.  Besides  which,  there  comes  into  his  house 
a  continual  round  of  visitors  that  puts  me  in  mind 
of  the  luncheon  hour  at  home.  As  he  has  thus  no 
ostensible  avocation,  we  have  named  him  'the  W.S.' 
to  give  a  flavour  of  respectability  to  the  street. 

Enough  of  the  Gasse.  The  weather  is  here  much 
colder.  It  rained  a  good  deal  yesterday;  and  though 
it  is  fair  and  sunshiny  again  to-day,  and  we  can  still 
sit,  of  course,  with  our  windows  open,  yet  there  is  no 
more  excuse  for  the  siesta;  and  the  bathe  in  the  river, 
except  for  cleanliness,  is  no  longer  a  necessity  of  life. 
The  Main  is  very  swift.  In  one  part  of  the  baths  it  is 
next  door  to  impossible  to  swim  against  it,  and  I  sus- 
pect that,  out  in  the  open,  it  would  be  quite  impos- 
sible.— Adieu,  my  dear  mother,  and  believe  me,  ever 
your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
(Rentier) 

To  Charles  Baxter 

On  the  way  home  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson  from  Germany.  The 
L.  J.  R.  herein  mentioned  was  a  short-lived  Essay  Club  of  only  six 
members;  its  meetings  were  held  in  a  public-house  in  Advocate's 
Close,  and  the  exact  meaning  of  its  initials  has  never  to  this  day 
been  divulged  to  outsiders  (see  the  Life  of  R.  L.  S.  by  Graham 
Balfour,  p.  90,  footnote). 

Boulogne  Sur  Mer,  Wednesday, 
yd  or  4th  September  1872 

Blame  me  not  that  this  epistle 
Is  the  first  you  have  from  me. 
Idleness  has  held  me  fettered, 


54  LETTERS   OE   STEVENSON      [187. 

But  at  last  the  times  are  bettered 
And  once  more  I  wet  my  whistle 
Here,  in  France  beside  the  sea. 

All  the  green  and  idle  weather 
I  have  had  in  sun  and  shower 
Such  an  easy  warm  subsistence, 
Such  an  indolent  existence 
I  should  fmd  it  hard  to  sever 

Day  from  day  and  hour  from  hour. 

Many  a  tract-provided  ranter 
May  upbraid  me,  dark  and  sour, 
Many  a  bland  Utilitarian 
Or  excited  Millenarian, 
— '  Pereunt  et  imputantur 

You  must  speak  to  every  hour.' 

But  (the  very  term's  deceptive) 
You  at  least,  my  friend,  will  see^ 
That  in  sunny  grassy  meadows 
Trailed  across  by  moving  shadows 
To  be  actively  receptive 
Is  as  much  as  man  can  be. 

He  that  all  the  winter  grapples 
Difficulties,  thrust  and  ward — 
Needs  to  cheer  him  thro'  his  duty 
Memories  of  sun  and  beauty 
Orchards  with  the  russet  apples 
Lying  scattered  on  the  sward. 


AET.  22]  CHARLES   BAXTER  55 

Many  such  I  keep  in  prison, 

Keep  them  here  at  heart  unseen, 
Till  my  muse  again  rehearses 
Long  years  hence,  and  in  my  verses 
You  shall  meet  them  rearisen 
Ever  comely,  ever  green. 

You  know  how  they  never  perish, 
How,  in  time  of  later  art. 

Memories  consecrate  and  sweeten 
These  defaced  and  tempest-beaten 
Flowers  of  former  years  we  cherish. 
Half  a  life,  against  our  heart. 

Most,  those  love-fruits  withered  greenly, 
Those  frail,  sickly  amourettes, 

How  they  brighten  with  the  distance 
Take  new  strength  and  new  existence 
Till  we  see  them  sitting  queenly 
Crowned  and  courted  by  regrets! 

All  that  loveliest  and  best  is, 

Aureole-fashion  round  their  head, 
They  that  looked  in  life  but  plainly, 
How  they  stir  our  spirits  vainly 
When  they  come  to  us  Alcestis- 
like  returning  from  the  dead! 

Not  the  old  love  but  another. 

Bright  she  comes  at  Memory's  call 
Our  forgotten  vows  reviving 


50  LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.873 

To  a  newer,  livelier  living, 
As  the  dead  child  to  the  mother 
Seems  the  fairest  child  of  all. 

Thus  our  Goethe,  sacred  master, 

Travelling  backward  thro'  his  youth, 
Surely  wandered  wrong  in  trying 
To  renew  the  old,  undying 
Loves  that  cling  in  memory  faster 
Than  they  ever  lived  in  truth. 

So;  en  voila  assez  de  mauvais  vers.  Let  us  finish 
with  a  word  or  two  in  honest  prose,  tho'  indeed  I 
shall  so  soon  be  back  again  and,  if  you  be  in  towTi  as 
I  hope,  so  soon  get  linked  again  down  the  Lothian 
road  by  a  cigar  or  two  and  a  liquor,  that  it  is  perhaps 
scarce  worth  the  postage  to  send  my  letter  on  before 
me.  I  have  just  been  long  enough  away  to  be  satis- 
fied and  even  anxious  to  get  home  again  and  talk 
the  matter  over  with  my  friends.  I  shall  have  plenty 
to  tell  you;  and  principally  plenty  that  I  do  not  care 
to  write;  and  I  daresay,  you,  too,  will  have  a  lot  of 
gossip.  What  about  Ferrier?  Is  the  L.J.R.  think 
you  to  go  naked  and  unashamed  this  winter?  He 
with  his  charming  idiosyncrasy  was  in  my  eyes  the 
vine-leaf  that  preserved  our  self-respect.  AH  the 
rest  of  us  are  such  shadows,  compared  to  his  full- 
flavoured  personality;  but  I  must  not  spoil  my  own 
drbnt.  I  am  trenching  upon  one  of  the  essayettes 
which  I  propose  to  introduce,  as  a  novelty,  this  year 
before  that  august  assembly.  For  we  must  not  let 
it  die.     It  is  a  sickly  baby,  but  what  with  nursing, 


AET.  22]  CHARLES   BAXTER  57 

and  pap,  and  the  like,  I  do  not  see  why  it  should  not 
have  a  stout  manhood  after  all,  and  perhaps  a  green 
old  age.  Eh !  when  we  are  old  (if  we  ever  should  be) 
that  too  will  be  one  of  those  cherished  memories  I 
have  been  so  rhapsodizing  over.  We  must  conse- 
crate our  room.  We  must  make  it  a  museum  of 
bright  recollections;  so  that  we  may  go  back  there 
white-headed,  and  say  'Vixi.'  After  all,  new  coun- 
tries, sun,  music,  and  all  the  rest  can  never  take 
down  our  gusty,  rainy,  smoky,  grim  old  city  out  of 
the  first  place  that  it  has  been  making  for  itself  in 
the  bottom  of  my  soul,  by  all  pleasant  and  hard 
things  that  have  befallen  me  for  these  past  twenty 
years  or  so.  My  heart  is  buried  there — say,  in 
Advocate's  Close! 

Simpson  and  I  got  on  very  well  together,  and  made 
a  very  suitable  pair.  I  like  him  much  better  than  I 
did  when  I  started  which  was  almost  more  than  I 
hoped  for. 

If  you  should  chance  to  see  -Bob,  give  him  my 

news  or  if  you  have  the  letter  about  you,  let  him  see 

it. — Ever  your  Affct.  friend,       t,    t     o 

-'  R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  Charles  Baxter 

Through  the  jesting  tenor  of  this  letter  is  to  be  discerned  a  vein 
of  more  than  half  serious  thinking  very  characteristic  of  R.  L.  S. 
alike  as  youth  and  man. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh,  October  1872 

MY  DEAR  BAXTER, — I  am  gum-boiled  and  face 
swollen  to  an  unprecedented  degree.  It  is  very  de- 
pressing to  suffer  from  gibber  that  cannot  be  brought 


58  LETTI'-RS   OF   SI  lA'KNSON      [^s^2 

to  a  head.  I  cannot  speak  it,  because  my  face  is  so 
swollen  and  stifl"  that  enunciation  must  be  deliberate 
— a  Ihin^  your  true  j^ibbcrcr  cannot  hold  up  his  head 
under;  and  writ  gibber  is  somehow  not  j^ibber  at  all, 
it  docs  not  come  forth,  docs  noi  flow,  with  that  fine 
irrational  freedom  that  it  loves  in  speech — it  does 
not  alTord  relief  U)  the  packed  bosom. 

Hence  I  am  sufferinj^  from  suppressed  gibber — an 
uneasy  complaint;  and  like  all  cases  of  suppressed 
humours,  this  hath  a  nasty  tendency  to  the  brain. 
Therefore  (the  more  confused  I  get,  the  more  I  lean 
on  Thus's  and  Hences  and  Therefores)  you  must 
not  be  down  upon  me,  most  noble  Festus,  altho'  this 
letter  should  smack  of  some  infirmity  of  judgment. 
I  speak  the  words  of  soberness  and  truth;  and  would 
you  were  not  almost  Init  altogether  as  I  am,  except 
this  swelling.  Lord,  Lord,  if  we  could  change  per- 
sonalities how  we  should  hate  it.  How  I  should  re- 
bel at  the  ofTicc,  repugn  under  the  Ulster  coat,  and 
repudiate  your  monkish  humours  thus  unjustly  and 
suddenly  thrust  upon  poor,  infidel  me!  And  as  for 
you — why,  my  dear  Charles,  'a  mouse  that  hath  its 
lodging  in  a  cat's  ear'  would  not  be  so  uneasy  as  you 
in  your  new  conditions.  I  do  not  see  how  your  tem- 
perament would  come  thro'  the  feverish  longings  to 
do  things  that  cannot  then  (or  perhaps  ever)  be  ac- 
complished, the  feverish  unrests  and  damnable  in- 
decisions, that  it  takes  all  my  easy-going  spirits  to 
come  through.  A  vane  can  live  out  anything  in  the 
shape  of  a  wind;  and  that  is  how  I  can  be,  and  am, 
a  more  serious  person  than  you.  Just  as  the  light 
French    seemed    very    serious    to    Sterne,    light    L. 


AET.  .2]  CHARLES   BAXTER  59 

Stevenson  can  afford  to  bob  about  over  the  top  of 
any  deep  sea  of  prospect  or  retrospect,  where  iron- 
clad C.  Baxter  w^ould  incontinently  go  down  with 
all  hands.  A  fool  is  generally  the  wisest  person  out. 
The  wise  man  must  shut  his  eyes  to  all  the  perils  and 
horrors  that  lie  round  him;  but  the  cap  and  bells  can 
go  bobbing  along  the  most  slippery  ledges  and  the 
bauble  will  not  stir  up  sleeping  lions.  Hurray!  for 
motley,  for  a  good  sound  insouciance,  for  a  healthy 
philosophic  carelessness! 

My  dear  Baxter,  a  word  in  your  ear — 'don't  you 
WISH  YOU  WERE  A  FOOL?'  How  casy  the  world 
would  go  on  with  you — literally  on  castors.  The 
only  reason  a  wise  man  can  assign  for  getting  drunk 
is  that  he  wishes  to  enjoy  for  a  while  the  blessed  im- 
munities and  sunshiny  weather  of  the  land  of  fool- 
dom.  But  a  fool,  who  dwells  ever  there,  has  no 
excuse  at  all.  That  is  a  happy  land,  if  you  like — 
and  not  so  far  away  either.  Take  a  fool's  advice 
and  let  us  strive  without  ceasing  to  get  into  it.  Hark 
in  your  ear  again:  'they  allow  people  to  reason 
IN  that  land.'  I  wish  I  could  take  you  by  the  hand 
and  lead  you  away  into  its  pleasant  boundaries. 
There  is  no  custom-house  on  the  frontier,  and  you 
may  take  in  what  books  you  will.  There  are  no 
manners  and  customs;  but  men  and  women  grow 
up,  like  trees  in  a  still,  well-walled  garden,  'at  their 
own  sweet  will.'  There  is  no  prescribed  or  custom- 
ary folly — no  motley,  cap,  or  bauble:  out  of  the  well 
of  each  one's  own  innate  absurdity  he  is  allcJwed  and 
encouraged  freely  to  draw  and  to  communicate;  and 
it  is  a  strange  thing  how  this  natural  fooling  comes 


6o         LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.872 

so  nigh  to  one's  better  thoughts  of  wisdom;  and 
stranger  still,  that  all  this  discord  of  people  speak- 
ing in  their  own  natural  moods  and  keys,  masses 
itself  into  a  far  more  perfect  harmony  than  all  the 
dismal,  official  unison  in  which  they  sing  in  other 
countries.  Part-singing  seems  best  all  the  world 
over. 

I  who  live  in  England  must  wear  the  hackneyed 
symbols  of  the  profession,  to  show  that  I  have  (at 
least)  consular  immunities,  coming  as  I  do  out  of 
another  land,  where  they  are  not  so  wise  as  they  are 
here,  but  fancy  that  God  likes  what  he  makes  and  is 
not  best  pleased  with  us  when  we  deface  and  dis- 
semble all  that  he  has  given  us  and  put  about  us  to 

one  common  standard  of Highty-Tighty! — when 

was  a  jester  obliged  to  finish  his  sentence  ?  I  cut  so 
strong  a  pirouette  that  all  my  bells  jingle,  and  come 
down  in  an  attitude,  with  one  hand  upon  my  hip. 
The  evening's  entertainment  is  over, — 'and  if  our 
kyind  friends ' 

Hurrah !  I  feel  relieved.  I  have  put  out  my  gibber, 
and  if  you  have  read  thus  far,  you  will  have  taken  it 
in.  I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  come  this  length.  I 
shall  try  a  trap  for  you,  and  insult  you  here,  on  this 
last  page.  '  O  Baxter  what  a  damned  humbug  you 
are!'  There, — shall  this  insult  bloom  and  die  un- 
seen, or  will  you  come  toward  me,  when  next  we 
meet,  with  a  face  deformed  with  anger  and  demand 
speedy  and  bloody  satisfaction.  Nous  verrons,  which 
is  French. 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


AET.  23]  CHARLES   BAXTER  6i 


To  Charles  Baxter 

In  the  winter  of  1872-73  Stevenson  was  out  of  health  again;  and 
by  the  beginning  of  spring  there  began  the  trouble  which  for  the 
next  twelve  months  clouded  his  home  life.  The  following  shows 
exactly  in  what  spirit  he  took  it: — 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh, 

Sunday,  February  2,  1873 

MY  DEAR  BAXTER, — The  thunderbolt  has  fallen 
with  a  vengeance  now.  On  Friday  night  after  leav- 
ing you,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  my  father  put 
me  one  or  two  questions  as  to  beliefs,  which  I  can- 
didly answered.  I  really  hate  all  lying  so  much 
now — a  new  found  honesty  that  has  somehow  come 
out  of  my  late  illness — that  I  could  not  so  much  as 
hesitate  at  the  time;  but  if  I  had  foreseen  the  real 
hell  of  everything  since,  I  think  I  should  have  lied, 
as  I  have  done  so  often  before.  I  so  far  thought  of 
my  father,  but  I  had  forgotten  my  mother.  And 
now!  they  are  both  ill,  both  silent,  both  as  down  in 
the  mouth  as  if — I  can  find  no  simile.  You  may 
fancy  how  happy  it  is  for  me.  If  it, were  not  too  late, 
I  think  I  could  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  retract, 
but  it  is  too  late;  and  again,  am  I  to  live  my  whole 
life  as  one  falsehood  ?  Of  course,  it  is  rougher  than 
hell  upon  my  father,  but  can  I  help  it?  They  don't 
see  either  that  my  game  is  not  the  light-hearted 
scoffer;  that  I  am  not  (as  they  call  me)  a  careless 
infidel.  I  believe  as  much  as  they  do,  only  generally 
in  the  inverse  ratio:  I  am,  I  think,  as  honest  as  they 
can  be  in  what  I  hold.  I  have  not  come  hastily  to 
my  views.     I  reserve  (as  I  told  them)  many  points 


62  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.87.^ 

until  I  acquire  fuller  information,  and  do  not  think 
I  am  thus  justly  to  be  called  'horrible  atheist.' 

Now,  what  is  to  take  place?  What  a  curse  I  am 
to  my  parents!  O  Lord,  what  a  pleasant  thing  it  is 
to  have  just  damned  the  happiness  of  (probably)  the 
only  two  people  who  care  a  damn  about  you  in  the 
world. 

What  is  my  life  to  be  at  this  rate?  What,  you 
rascal  ?  Answer — I  have  a  pistol  at  your  throat.  If 
all  that  I  hold  true  and  most  desire  to  spread  is  to  be 
such  death,  and  worse  than  death,  in  the  eyes  of  my 
father  and  mother,  what  the  devil  am  I  to  do  ? 

Here  is  a  good  heavy  cross  with  a  vengeance,  and 
all  rough  with  rusty  nails  that  tear  your  fmgers,  only 
it  is  not  I  that  have  to  carry  it  alone;  I  hold  the  light 
end,  but  the  heavy  burden  falls  on  these  two. 

Don't — I  don't  know  what  I  was  going  to  say.  I 
am  an  abject  idiot,  which,  all  things  considered,  is 
not  remarkable. — Ever  your  affectionate  and  horrible 
atheist, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


II 

STUDENT   DAYS— Continued 
NEW  FRIENDSHIPS— ORDERED   SOUTH 

JULY    1873-MAY    1874 

THE  year  1873  was  a  critical  one  in  Stevenson's 
life.  Late  in  July  he  went  for  the  second 
time  to  pay  a  visit  to  Cockfield  Rectory,  the 
pleasant  Sufifolk  home  of  his  cousin  Mrs.  Churchill 
Babington  and  her  husband.  Another  guest  at  the 
same  time  was  my  wife — then  Mrs.  Sitwell — an 
intimate  friend  and  connection  by  marriage  of  the 
hostess.  I  was  shortly  due  to  join  the  party,  when 
Mrs.  Sitwell  wrote  telling  me  of  the  'fine  young 
spirit'  she  had  found  under  her  friend's  roof,  and 
suggesting  that  I  should  hasten  my  visit  so  as  to 
make  his  acquaintance  before  he  left.  I  came  accord- 
ingly, and  from  that  time  on  the  fine  young  spirit 
became  a  leading  interest  both  in  her  life  and  mine. 
He  had  thrown  himself  on  her  sympathies,  in  that 
troubled  hour  of  his  youth,  with  entire  dependence 
almost  from  the  first,  and  clung  to  her  devotedly  for 
the  next  two  years  as  to  an  inspirer,  consoler,  and 
guide.     Under  her  influence  he  began  for  the  first 

63 


64  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON 

time  to  sec  his  way  in  life,  and  to  believe  hopefully 
and  manfully  in  his  own  powers  and  future.  To  en- 
courage such  hopes  further,  and  to  lend  what  hand 
one  could  towards  their  fulfilment,  became  quickly 
one  of  the  first  of  cares  and  pleasures.  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  recognise,  in  this  very  un-academical  type 
of  Scottish  youth,  a  spirit  the  most  interesting  and 
full  of  promise.  His  social  charm  was  already  at  its 
height,  and  quite  irresistible;  but  inwardly  he  was 
full  of  trouble  and  self-doubt.  If  he  could  steer  him- 
self or  be  steered  safely  through  the  difficulties  of 
youth,  and  if  he  could  learn  to  write  with  half  the 
charm  and  genius  that  shone  from  his  presence  and 
conversation,  there  seemed  room  to  hope  for  the  highest 
from  him.  He  went  back  to  Edinburgh  in  the  begin- 
ning of  September  full  of  new  hope  and  heart.  It 
had  been  agreed  that  while  still  reading,  as  his  parents 
desired,  for  the  bar,  he  should  try  seriously  to  get 
ready  for  publication  some  essays  which  he  had 
already  on  hand — one  on  Walt  Whitman,  one  on 
John  Knox,  one  on  Roads  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Road 
— and  should  so  far  as  possible  avoid  topics  of  dis- 
pute in  the  home  circle. 

But  after  a  while  the  news  of  him  was  not  favour- 
able. Those  differences  with  his  father,  which  had 
been  weighing  almost  morbidly  upon  his  high-strung 
nature,  were  renewed.  By  mid-October  his  letters 
told  of  failing  health.  He  came  to  London,  and  in- 
stead of  presenting  himself,  as  had  been  proposed,  to 
be  examined  for  admission  to  one  of  the  London  Inns 


STUDENT  DAYS  65 

of  Court,  he  was  forced  to  consult  the  late  Sir  Andrew 
Clark,  who  found  him  suffering  from  acute  nerve 
exhaustion,  with  some  threat  of  danger  to  the  lungs. 
He  was  ordered  to  break  at  once  with  Edinburgh  for 
a  time,  and  to  spend  the  winter  in  a  more  soothing 
climate  and  surroundings.  He  went  accordingly  to 
Mentone,  a  place  he  had  delighted  in  as  a  boy  ten 
years  before,  and  during  a  stay  of  six  months  made 
a  slow,  but  for  the  time  being  a  pretty  complete, 
recovery.  I  visited  him  twice  during  the  winter,  and 
the  second  time  found  him  coming  fairly  to  himself 
again  in  the  southern  peace  and  sunshine.  He  was 
busy  with  the  essay  Ordered  South,  and  with  that  on 
Victor  Hugo^s  Romances,  which  was  afterwards  his 
first  contribution  to  the  Cornhill  Magazine;  was  full 
of  a  thousand  dreams  and  projects  for  future  work; 
and  was  passing  his  invalid  days  pleasantly  mean- 
while in  the  companionship  of  two  kind  and  accom- 
plished Russian  ladies,  who  took  to  him  warmly,  and 
of  their  children.  The  following  record  of  the  time 
is  drawn  from  his  correspondence  pardy  with  his 
parents  and  partly  with  myself,  but  chiefly  from  the 
journal-letters,  containing  a  full  and  intimate  record 
of  his  daily  moods  and  doings,  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  send  off  weekly  or  oftener  to  Mrs.  Sitwell. 


66  LETTERS   UE   S'lICVENSON      [.S73 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

This  is  from  liis  cousin's  house  in  Suffolk.  Some  of  the  impres- 
sions then  received  of  the  contrasts  between  Scotland  and  Kngland 
were  later  worked  out  in  the  essay  The  Foreigner  at  Home,  printed 
at  the  head  of  Memories  and  Portraits: — 

Cockfield  Rectory,  Sudbury,  Suffolk, 
Tuesday,  July  28,  1873 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  am  too  happy  to  be  much 
of  a  correspondent.  Yesterday  we  were  away  to 
Melford  and  Lavenham,  both  exceptionally  placid, 
beautiful  old  English  towns.  Melford  scattered  all 
round  a  big  green,  with  an  Elizabethan  Hall  and 
Park,  great  screens  of  trees  that  seem  twice  as  high 
as  trees  should  seem,  and  everything  else  like  what 
ought  to  be  in  a  novel,  and  what  one  never  expects 
to  sec  in  reality,  made  me  cry  out  how  good  we  were 
to  live  in  Scotland,  for  the  many  hundredth  time.  I 
cannot  get  over  my  astonishment— indeed,  it  increases 
every  day — at  the  hopeless  gulf  that  there  is  between 
England  and  Scotland,  and  English  and  Scotch. 
Nothing  is  the  same;  and  I  feel  as  strange  and  out- 
landish here  as  I  do  in  France  or  Germany.  Every- 
thing by  the  wayside,  in  the  houses,  or  about  the 
people,  strikes  me  with  an  unexpected  unfamiliarity: 
I  walk  among  surprises,  for  just  where  you  think  you 
have  them,  something  wrong  turns  up. 

I  got  a  little  Law  read  yesterday,  and  some  Ger- 
man this  morning,  but  on  the  whole  there  are  too 
many  amusements  going  for  much  work;  as  for  cor- 
respondence, I  have  neither  heart  nor  time  for  it 

to-day. 

R.  L.  S. 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  67 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

After  leaving  Cockfield  Stevenson  spent  a  few  days  in  London 
and  a  few  with  me  in  a  cottage  I  then  had  at  Norwood.  This  and 
the  following  letters  were  written  in  the  next  days  after  his  return 
home.  'Bob'  in  the  last  paragraph  is  Robert  Alan  Mowbray 
Stevenson,  a  brilliant  elder  cousin  to  whom  Louis  had  been  from 
boyhood  devotedly  attached:  afterwards  known  as  the  brilliant 
painter-critic  and  author  of  Velasquez,  etc. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh, 

Monday,  September  ist,  1873 

I  HAVE  arrived,  as  you  see,  without  accident;  but 
I  never  had  a  more  wretched  journey  in  my  life.  I 
could  not  settle  to  read  anything;  I  bought  Darwin's 
last  book  in  despair,  for  I  knew  I  could  generally 
read  Darwin,  but  it  was  a  failure.  However,  the 
book  served  me  in  good  stead;  for  when  a  couple  of 
children  got  in  at  Newcastle,  I  struck  up  a  great 
friendship  with  them  on  the  strength  of  the  illustra- 
tions. These  two  children  (a  girl  of  nine  and  a  boy 
of  six)  had  never  before  travelled  in  a  railway,  so 
that  everything  was  a  glory  to  them,  and  they  were 
never  tired  of  watching  the  telegraph  posts  and  trees 
and  hedges  go  racing  past  us  to  the  tail  of  the  train  ; 
and  the  girl  I  found  quite  entered  into  the  most 
daring  personifications  that  I  could  make.  A  little 
way  on,  about  Alnmouth,  they  had  their  first  sight  of 
the  sea;  and  it  was  wonderful  how  loath  they  were 
to  believe  that  what  they  saw  was  water;  indeed  it 
was  very  still  and  grey  and  solid-looking  under  a  sky 
to  match.  It  was  worth  the  fare,  yet  a  little  farther 
on,  to  see  the  delight  of  the  girl  when  she  passed  into 
'another  country,'  with  the  black  Tweed  under  our 
feet,  crossed  by  the  lamps  of  the  passenger  bridge. 


68         LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON       [.873 

I  remember  the  first  time  I  had  gone  into  'anotlier 
country,'  over  the  same  river  from  the  other  side. 

Bob  was  not  at  the  station  when  I  arrived;  but  a 
friend  of  his  brought  me  a  letter;  and  he  is  to  be  in 
the  first  thing  to-morrow.  Do  you  know,  I  think 
yesterday  and  the  day  before  were  the  two  happiest 
days  of  my  life?  I  would  not  have  missed  last 
month  for  eternity. — Ever  yours,  p    t     «^ 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  paper  on  RcS-J  herein  mentioned  had  been  planned  during 
walks  at  Cockfield;  was  offered  to  and  rejected  by  the  Saturday 
Review  and  ultimately  accepted  by  Mr.  Ilamerton  for  the  Port- 
folio; and  was  the  first  regular  or  paid  contribution  of  Stevenson 
lo  periodical  literature. 

17  Ileriot  Row,  Edinburgh, 

Saturday,  September  6,  1873. 

I  HAVE  been  to-day  a  very  long  walk  with  my 
father  through  some  of  the  most  beautiful  ways 
hereabouts;  the  day  was  cold  with  an  iron,  windy 
sky,  and  only  glorified  now  and  then  with  autumn 
sunlight.  For  it  is  fully  autumn  with  us,  with  a 
blight  already  over  the  greens,  and  a  keen  wind  in 
the  morning  that  makes  one  rather  timid  of  one's 
tub  when  it  finds  its  way  indoors. 

I  was  out  this  evening  to  call  on  a  friend,  and, 
coming  back  through  the  wet,  crowded,  lamp-lit 
streets,  was  singing  after  my  own  fashion,  '  Du  hast 
Diamante n  unci  Perlen,^  when  I  heard  a  poor  cripple 
man  in  the  gutter  wailing  over  a  pitiful  Scotch  air, 
his  club-foot  supported  on  the  other  knee,  and  his 
whole  woebegone  body  propped  sideways  against  a 
crutch.     The  nearest  lamp  threw  a  strong  light  on 


AEt.  23]  MRS.  SITWELL  69 

his  worn,  sordid  face  and  the  three  boxes  of  lucifer 
matches  that  he  held  for  sale.  My  own  false  notes 
stuck  in  my  chest.  How  well  off  I  am!  is  the  bur- 
then of  my  songs  all  day  long — '  Drum  ist  so  wohl  mir 
in  der  Welt! '  and  the  ugly  reality  of  the  cripple  man 
was  an  intrusion  on  the  beautiful  world  in  which  I 
was  walking.  He  could  no  more  sing  than  I  could; 
and  his  voice  was  cracked  and  rusty,  and  altogether 
perished.  To  think  that  that  wreck  may  have  walked 
the  streets  some  night  years  ago,  as  glad  at  heart  as 
I  was,  and  promising  himself  a  future  as  golden  and 
honourable  ! 

Sunday,  11.20  a.m. — I  wonder  what  you  are  doing 
now?— in  church  likely,  at  the  Te  Deum.  Every- 
thing here  is  utterly  silent.  I  can  hear  men's  foot- 
falls streets  away;  the  whole  life  of  Edinburgh  has 
been  sucked  into  sundry  pious  edifices;  the  gardens 
below  my  windows  are  steeped  in  a  diffused  sunlight, 
and  every  tree  seems  standing  on  tiptoes,  strained 
and  silent,  as  though  to  get  its  head  above  its  neigh- 
bour's and  listen.  You  know  what  I  mean,  don't 
you?  How  trees  do  seem  silently  to  assert  them- 
selves on  an  occasion!  I  have  been  trying  to  write 
Roads  until  I  feel  as  if  I  were  standing  on  my  head; 
but  I  mean  Roads,  and  shall  do  something  to  them. 

I  wish  I  could  make  you  feel  the  hush  that  is  over 
everything,  only  made  the  more  perfect  by  rare  in- 
terruptions; and  the  rich,  placid  light,  and  the  still, 
autumnal  foliage.  Houses,  you  know,  stand  all 
about  our  gardens:  solid,  steady  blocks  of  houses; 
all  look  empty  and  asleep. 


70       LF/rn;Rs  of  sif.vi-.nson     [.S73 

Monday  night. — The  drums  and  fifes  up  in  the 
castle  are  sounding  the  guard-call  through  the  dark, 
and  there  is  a  great  rattle  of  carriages  without.  I 
have  had  (I  must  tell  you)  my  bed  taken  out  of  this 
room,  so  that  I  am  alone  in  it  with  my  books  and  two 
tables,  and  two  chairs,  and  a  coal-skuttle  (or  scuttle) 
( ?)  and  a  debris  of  broken  pipes  in  a  corner,  and  my 
old  school  play-box,  so  full  of  papers  and  books  that 
the  lid  will  not  shut  down,  standing  reproachfully  in 
the  midst.  There  is  something  in  it  that  is  still  a 
little  gaunt  and  vacant;  it  needs  a  little  populous 
disorder  over  it  to  give  it  the  feel  of  homeliness,  and 
perhaps  a  bit  more  furniture,  just  to  take  the  edge 
ofT  the  sense  of  illimitable  space,  eternity,  and  a  fu- 
ture state,  and  the  like,  that  is  brought  home  to  one, 
even  in  this  small  attic,  by  the  wide,  empty  floor. 

You  would  require  to  know,  what  only  I  can  ever 
know,  many  grim  and  many  maudlin  passages  out  of 
my  past  life  to  feel  how  great  a  change  has  been 
made  for  me  by  this  past  summer.  Let  me  be  ever 
so  poor  and  thread-paper  a  soul,  I  am  going  to  try 
for  the  best. 

These  good  booksellers  of  mine  have  at  last  got  a 
Wcrther  without  illustrations.  I  want  you  to  like 
Charlotte.  Werther  himself  has  every  feebleness 
and  vice  that  could  tend  to  make  his  suicide  a  most 
virtuous  and  commendable  action;  and  yet  I  like 
Werther  too — I  don't  know  why,  except  that  he  has 
written  the  most  delightful  letters  in  the  world. 
Note,  by  the  way,  the  passage  under  date  June  21st 
not  far  from  the  beginning;  it  fmds  a  voice  for  a 
great   deal   of   dumb,    uneasy,   pleasurable   longing 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  71 

that  we  have  all  had,  times  without  number.  I 
looked  that  up  the  other  day  for  Roads,  so  I  know 
the  reference;  but  you  will  find  it  a  garden  of  flowers 
from  beginning  to  end.  All  through  the  passion 
keeps  steadily  rising,  from  the  thunderstorm  at  the 
country-house — there  was  thunder  in  that  story  too — 
up  to  the  last  wild  delirious  interview;  either  Lotte 
was  no  good  at  all,  or  else  Werther  should  have  re- 
mained alive  after  that;  either  he  knew  his  woman 
too  well,  or  else  he  was  precipitate.  But  an  idiot 
like  that  is  hopeless;  and  yet,  he  wasn't  an  idiot — I 
make  reparation,  and  will  offer  eighteen  pounds  of 
best  wax  at  his  tomb.  Poor  devil!  he  was  only  the 
weakest — or,  at  least,  a  very  weak  strong  man. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

17  Her  lot  Row,  Edinburgh, 

Friday,  September  12,  1873 

...  I  WAS  over  last  night,  contrary  to  my  own 
wish,  in  Leven,  Fife;  and  this  morning  I  had  a  con- 
versation of  which,  I  think,  some  account  might  in- 
terest you.  I  was  up  with  a  cousin  who  was  fishing 
in  a  mill-lade,  and  a  shower  of  rain  drove  me  for 
shelter  into  a  tumble-down  steading  attached  to  the 
mill.  There  I  found  a  labourer  cleaning  a  byre,  with 
whom  I  fell  into  talk.  The  man  was  to  all  appear- 
ance as  heavy,  as  hcbete,  as  any  English  clodhopper; 
but  I  knew  I  was  in  Scotland,  and  launched  out  forth- 
right into  Education  and  Politics  and  the  aims  of 
one's  life.  I  told  him  how  I  had  found  the  peasantry 
in  Suffolk,  and  added  that  their  state  had  made  me 


72  LETTKRS   OF   STEVENSON      [.87.3 

feel  quite  pained  and  down-hearted.  'It  but  to  do 
that,'  he  said,  'to  onybody  that  thinks  at  a'!'  Then, 
again,  he  said  that  he  could  not  conceive  how  any- 
thing could  daunt  or  cast  down  a  man  who  had  an 
aim  in  life.  'They  that  have  had  a  guid  schoolin' 
and  do  nae  mair,  whatever  they  do,  they  have  done; 
but  him  that  has  aye  something  ayont  need  never  be 
weary.'  I  have  had  to  mutilate  the  dialect  much,  so 
that  it  might  be  comprehensible  to  you;  but  I  think 
the  sentiment  will  keep,  even  through  a  change  of 
words,  something  of  the  heartsome  ring  of  encour- 
agement that  it  had  for  me:  and  that  from  a  man 
cleaning  a  byre!  You  see  what  John  Knox  and  his 
schools  have  done. 

Saturday. — This  has  been  a  charming  day  for  me 
from  morning  to  now  (5  p.m.).  First,  I  found  your 
letter,  and  went  down  and  read  it  on  a  seat  in  those 
Public  Gardens  of  which  you  have  heard  already. 
After  lunch,  my  father  and  I  went  down  to  the  coast 
and  walked  a  little  way  along  the  shore  between 
Granton  and  Cramond.  This  has  always  been  with 
me  a  very  favourite  walk.  The  Firth  closes  gradu- 
ally together  before  you,  the  coast  runs  in  a  series 
of  the  most  beautifully  moulded  bays,  hill  after  hill, 
wooded  and  softly  outlined,  trends  away  in  front  till 
the  two  shores  join  together.  When  the  tide  is  out 
there  are  great;  gleaming  flats  of  wet  sand,  over 
which  the  gulls  go  flying  and  crying;  and  every  cape 
runs  down  into  them  with  its  little  spit  of  wall  and 
trees.  We  lay  together  a  long  time  on  the  beach; 
the  sea  just  babbled  among  the  stones;  and  at  one 
time  we  heard  the  hollow,  sturdy  beat  of  the  paddles 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  73 

of  an  unseen  steamer  somewhere  round  the  cape.  I 
am  glad  to  say  that  the  peace  of  the  day  and  scenery 
was  not  marred  by  any  unpleasantness  between  us  two. 

I  am,  unhappily,  off  my  style,  and  can  do  nothing 
well;  indeed,  I  fear  I  have  marred  Roads  finally  by 
patching  at  it  when  I  was  out  of  the  humour.  Only, 
I  am  beginning  to  see  something  great  about  John 
Knox  and  Queen  Mary:  I  like  them  both  so  much, 
that  I  feel  as  if  I  could  write  the  history  fairly. 

Sunday. — It  has  rained  and  blown  chilly  out  of  the 
East  all  day.  This  was  my  first  visit  to  church  since 
the  last  Sunday  at  Cockfield.  I  was  alone,  and  read 
the  minor  prophets  and  thought  of  the  past  all  the 
time;  a  sentimental  Calvinist  preached — a  very  odd 
animal,  as  you  may  fancy — and  to  him  I  did  not  at- 
tend very  closely.  All  afternoon  I  worked  until  half- 
past  four,  when  I  went  out,  under  an  umbrella,  and 
cruised  about  the  empty,  wet,  glimmering  streets  until 
near  dinner  time. 

I  have  finished  Roads  to-day,  and  send  it  off  to  you 
to  see.  The  Lord  knows  whether  it  is  worth  any- 
thing!— some  of  it  pleases  me  a  good  deal,  but  I  fear 
it  is  quite  unfit  for  any  possible  magazine.  However, 
I  wish  you  to  see,  it,  as  you  know  the  humour  in 
which  it  was  conceived,  walking  alone  and  very 
happily  about  the  Suffolk  highways  and  byeways  on 
several  splendid  sunny  afternoons. — Believe  me,  ever 
your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

Monday. — I  have  looked  over  Roads  again,  and  1 
am  aghast  at  its  feebleness.     It  is  the  trial  of  a  very 


74  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.873 

"prentice  hand'  indeed.  Shall  I  ever  learn  to  do 
anything  well}  However,  it  shall  go  to  you,  for  the 
reasons  given  above. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

After  an  outpouring  about  difliculties  at  home. 

Edinburgh,  Tuesday,  September  i6,  1873 

...  I  MUST  be  very  strong  to  have  all  this  vexation 
and  still  to  be  well.  I  was  weighed  the  other  day,  and 
the  gross  weight  of  my  large  person  was  eight  stone 
six!  Does  it  not  seem  surprising  that  I  can  keep  the 
lamp  alight,  through  all  this  gusty  weather,  in  so  frail 
a  lantern?     And  yet  it  burns  cheerily. 

My  mother  is  leaving  for  the  country  this  morning, 
and  my  father  and  I  will  be  alone  for  the  best  part  of 
the  week  in  this  house.  Then  on  Friday  I  go  south 
to  Dumfries  till  Monday.  I  must  write  small,  or  I 
shall  have  a  tremendous  budget  by  then. 

7.20  p.m. — I  must  tell  you  a  thing  I  saw  to-day. 
I  was  going  down  to  Portobello  in  the  train,  when 
there  came  into  the  next  compartment  (third  class) 
an  artisan,  strongly  marked  with  smallpox,  and  with 
sunken,  heavy  eyes — a  face  hard  and  unkind,  and 
without  anything  lovely.  There  was  a  woman  on 
the  platform  seeing  him  off.  At  first  sight,  with  her 
one  eye  blind  and  the  whole  cast  of  her  features 
strongly  plebeian,  and  even  vicious,  she  seemed  as 
unpleasant  as  the  man;  but  there  was  something 
beautifully  soft,  a  sort  of  light  of  tenderness,  as  on 
some  Dutch  Madonna,  that  came  over  her  face  when 
she  looked  at  the  man.     They  talked  for  a  while 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  75 

together  through  the  window;  the  man  seemed  to 
have  been  asking  money.  'Ye  ken  the  last  time,' 
she  said,  'I  gave  ye  two  shillin's  for  your  ludgin', 

and  ye  said '     it  died  off  into  whisper.     Plainly 

Falstaff  and  Dame  Quickly  over  again.  The  man 
laughed  unpleasantly,  even  cruelly,  and  said  some- 
thing; and  the  woman  turned  her  back  on  the  car- 
riage and  stood  a  long  while  so,  and,  do  what  I 
might,  I  could  catch  no  glimpse  of  her  expression, 
although  I  thought  I  saw  the  heave  of  a  sob  in  her 
shoulders.  At  last,  after  the  train  was  already  in 
motion,  she  turned  round  and  put  two  shillings  into 
his  hand.  I  saw  her  stand  and  look  after  us  with  a 
perfect  heaven  of  love  on  her  face — this  poor  one- 
eyed  Madonna — until  the  train  was  out  of  sight;  but 
the  man,  sordidly  happy  with  his  gains,  did  not  put 
himself  to  the  inconvenience  of  one  glance  to  thank 
her  for  her  ill-deserved  kindness. 

I  have  been  up  at  the  Spec,  and  looked  out  a  refer- 
ence I  wanted.  The  whole  town  is  drowned  in  white, 
wet  vapour  off  the  sea.  Everything  drips  and  soaks. 
The  very  statues  seem  wet  to  the  skin.  I  cannot 
pretend  to  be  very  cheerful;  I  did  not  see  one  con- 
tented face  in  the  streets;  and  the  poor  did  look 
so  helplessly  chill  and  dripping,  without  a  stitch  to 
change,  or  so  much  as  a  fire  to  dry  themselves  at, 
or  perhaps  money  to  buy  a  meal,  or  perhaps  even 
a  bed.     My  heart  shivers  for  them. 

Dumfries,  Friday. — All  my  thirst  for  a  little 
warmth,  a  little  sun,  a  little  corner  of  blue  sky  avails 
nothing.  Without,  the  rain  falls  with  a  long  drawn 
swish,  and  the  night  is  as  dark  as  a  vault.     There  is 


76  LKTIKRS  OF  S'I'KVENSON      [.87., 

no  wind  indeed,  and  that  is  a  blessed  change  after 
the  unruly,  bedlamite  gusts  that  have  been  charging 
against  one  round  street  corners  and  utterly  abolish- 
ing and  destroying  all  that  is  peaceful  in  life.  Noth- 
ing sours  my  temper  like  these  coarse  termagant 
winds.  I  hate  practical  joking;  and  your  vulgarest 
practical  joker  is  your  flaw  of  wind. 

I  have  tried  to  write  some  verses;  but  I  find  I  have 
nothing  to  say  that  has  not  been  already  perfectly 
said  and  perfectly  sung  in  Adelaide.  I  have  so  per- 
fect an  idea  out  of  that  song!  The  great  Alps,  a 
wonder  in  the  starlight — the  river,  strong  from  the 
hills,  and  turbulent,  and  loudly  audible  at  night — 
the  country,  a  scented  Fri'thlingsgarten  of  orchards 
and  deep  wood  where  the  nightingales  harbour — a 
sort  of  German  flavour  over  all — and  this  love- 
drunken  man,  wandering  on  by  sleeping  village  and 
silent  town,  pours  out  of  his  full  heart,  Einst,  O 
Wunder,  einst,  etc.  I  wonder  if  I  am  wrong  about 
this  being  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect  thing  in  the 
world — the  only  marriage  of  really  accordant  words 
and  music — both  drunk  with  the  same  poignant, 
unutterable  sentiment. 

To-day  in  Glasgow  my  father  went  off  on  some 
business,  and  my  mother  and  I  wandered  about  for 
two  hours.  We  had  lunch  together,  and  were  very 
merry  over  what  the  people  at  the  restaurant  would 
think  of  us — mother  and  son  they  could  not  suppose 
us  to  be. 

Saturday. — And  to-day  it  came — warmth,  sun- 
light, and  a  strong,  hearty  living  wind  among  the 
trees.     I  found  myself  a  new  being.     My  father  and 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  77 

I  went  off  a  long  walk,  through  a  country  most  beau- 
tifully wooded  and  various,  under  a  range  of  hills. 
You  should  have  seen  one  place  where  the  wood 
suddenly  fell  away  in  front  of  us  down  a  long,  steep 
hill  between  a  double  row  of  trees,  with  one  small 
fair-haired  child  framed  in  shadow  in  the  foreground; 
and  when  we  got  to  the  foot  there  was  the  little  kirk 
and  kirkyard  of  Irongray,  among  broken  fields  and 
woods  by  the  side  of  the  bright,  rapid  river.  In 
the  kirkyard  there  was  a  wonderful  congregation  of 
tombstones,  upright  and  recumbent  on  four  legs 
(after  our  Scotch  fashion) ,  and  of  flat-armed  fir-trees. 
One  gravestone  was  erected  by  Scott  (at  a  cost,  I 
learn,  of  £']6)  to  the  poor  woman  who  served  him  as 
heroine  in  the  Heart  of  Midlothian,  and  the  inscrip- 
tion in  its  stiff,  Jedediah  Cleishbotham  fashion  is 
not  without  something  touching.^  We  went  up  the 
stream  a  little  further  to  where  two  Covenanters  lie 
buried  in  an  oakwood;  the  tombstone  (as  the  cus- 
tom is)  containing  the  details  of  their  grim  little 
tragedy  in  funnily  bad  rhyme,  one  verse  of  which 
sticks  in  my  memory: — 

*We  died,  their  furious  rage  to  stay. 
Near  to  the  kirk  of  Iron-gray.' 

We  then  fetched  a  long  compass  round  about 
through  Holywood  Kirk  and  Lincluden  ruins  to 
Dumfries.  But  the  walk  came  sadly  to  grief  as  a 
pleasure  excursion  before  bur  return  .  .  . 

Sunday. — Another  beautiful  day.  My  father  and  I 
walked  into  Dumfries  to  church.     When  the  service 

*  See  Scott  himself,  in  the  preface  to  the  Author's  edition. 


78  LETTERS   OF   STEVI-NSON      [.S73 

was  done  I  noted  the  two  halberts  laid  against  the 
pillar  of  the  churchyard  gate;  and  as  I  had  not  seen 
the  little  weekly  pomp  of  civic  dignitaries  in  our 
Scotch  country  towns  for  some  years,  I  made  my 
father  wait.  You  should  have  seen  the  provost  and 
three  bailies  going  stately  away  down  the  sunlit 
street,  and  the  two  town  servants  strutting  in  front 
of  them,  in  red  coats  and  cocked  hats,  and  with  the 
halberts  most  conspicuously  shouldered.  We  saw 
Burns's  house — a  place  that  made  me  deeply  sad — 
and  spent  the  afternoon  down  the  banks  of  theNith. 
I  had  not  spent  a  day  by  a  river  since  we  lunched  in 
the  meadows  near  Sudbury.  The  air  was  as  pure 
and  clear  and  sparkling  as  spring  water;  beautiful, 
graceful  outlines  of  hill  and  wood  shut  us  in  on  every 
side;  and  the  swift,  brown  river  fled  smoothly  away 
from  before  our  eyes,  rippled  over  w^ith  oily  eddies 
and  dimples.  White  gulls  had  come  up  from  the  sea 
to  fish,  and  hovered  and  f^ew  hither  and  thither  among 
the  loops  of  the  stream.  By  good  fortune,  too,  it  was 
a  dead  calm  between  my  father  and  me.  Do  you 
know,  I  find  these  rows  harder  on  me  than  ever.  I 
get  a  funny  swimming  in  the  head  when  they  come 
on  that  I  had  not  before — and  the  like  when  I  think 
of  them.  -n    T     c 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh^,  Monday,  22nd  September  1873 

I  HAVE  just  had  another  disagreeable  to-night.  It 
is  difficult  indeed  to  steer  steady  among  the  breakers: 
I  am  always  touching  ground;  generally  it  is  my  own 
blame,  for  I  cannot  help  getting  friendly  with  my 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  79 

father  (whom  I  do  love),  and  so  speaking  foolishly 
with  my  mouth.  I  have  yet  to  learn  in  ordinary 
conversation  that  reserve  and  silence  that  I  must 
try  to  unlearn  in  the  matter  of  the  feelings. 

The  news  that  Roads  would  do  reached  me  in  good 
season;  I  had  begun  utterly  to  despair  of  doing 
anything.  Certainly  I  do  not  think  I  should  be  in  a 
hurry  to  commit  myself  about  the  Covenanters;  the 
whole  subject  turns  round  about  me  and  so  branches 
out  to  this  side  and  that,  that  I  grow  bewildered;  and 
one  cannot  write  discreetly  about  any  one  little  cor- 
ner of  an  historical  period,  until  one  has  an  organic 
view  of  the  whole.  I  have,  however — given  life  and 
health — great  hope  of  my  Covenanters;  indeed,  there 
is  a  lot  of  precious  dust  to  be  beaten  out  of  that  stack 
even  by  a  very  infirm  hand. 

Much  later. — I  can  scarcely  see  to  write  just  now; 
so  please  excuse.  We  have  had  an  awful  scene.  All 
that  my  father  had  to  say  has  been  put  forth — not 
that  it  was  anything  new;  only  it  is  the  devil  to  hear. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do — the  world  goes  hopelessly 
round  about  me;  there  is  no  more  possibility  of  doing, 
living,  being  anything  but  a  heast,  and  there's  the 
end  of  it. 

It  is  eleven,  I  think,  for  a  clock  struck.  O  Lord, 
there  has  been  a  deal  of  time  through  our  hands  since 
I  went  down  to  supper!  All  this  has  come  from  my 
own  folly;  I  somehow  could  not  think  the  gulf  so 
impassable,  and  I  read  him  some  notes  on  the  Duke 
of  Argyll  ^ — I  thought  he  would  agree  so  far,  and 
that  we  might  have  some  rational  discussion  on  the 

*  I.e.  on  his  book,  The  Reign  of  Law. 


8o  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.873 

rest.  And  now — after  some  hours — he  has  told  me 
that  he  is  a  weak  man,  and  that  I  am  driving  him 
too  far,  and  that  I  know  not  what  I  am  doing.  O 
dear  God,  this  is  bad  work! 

I  have  lit  a  pipe  and  feel  calmer.  I  say,  my  dear 
friend,  I  am  killing  my  father — he  told  me  to-night 
(by  the  way)  that  I  alienated  utterly  my  mother — 
and  this  is  the  result  of  my  attempt  to  start  fair  and 
fresh  and  to  do  my  best  for  all  of  them. 

I  must  wait  till  to-morrow  ere  I  finish.  I  am  to- 
night too  excited. 

Tuesday. — The  sun  is  shining  to-day,  which  is  a 
great  matter,  and  altogether  the  gale  having  blown  off 
again,  I  live  in  a  precarious  lull.  On  the  whole  I  am 
not  displeased  with  last  night;  I  kept  my  eyes  open 
through  it  all,  and  I  think,  not  only  avoided  saying 
anything  that  could  make  matters  worse  in  the  future, 
but  said  something  that  viay  do  good.  But  a  little 
better  or  a  little  worse  is  a  trifle.  I  lay  in  bed  this 
morning  awake,  for  I  was  tired  and  cold  and  in  no 
special  hurry  to  rise,  and  heard  my  father  go  out  for 
the  papers;  and  then  I  lay  and  wished — O,  if  he 
would  only  whistle  when  he  comes  in  again!  But  of 
course  he  did  not.     I  have  stopped  that  pipe. 

Now,  you  see,  I  have  written  to  you  this  time  and 
sent  it  off,  for  both  of  which  God  forgive  me. — Ever 
your  faithful  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 

My  father  and  I  together  can  put  about  a  year 
through  in  half  an  hour.  Look  here,  you  mustn't 
take  this  too  much  to  heart.    I  shall  be  all  right  in  a 


AET.  23i  MRS.   SITWELL  8i 

few  hours.  It's  impossible  to  depress  me.  And  of 
course,  when  you  can't  do  anything,  there's  no  need 
of  being  depressed.     It's  all  waste  tissue.  , 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edhtburgh],  Wednesday,  September  24/^  1873 

I  HAVE  found  another  'flowering  isle.'  All  this 
beautiful,  quiet,  sunlit  day,  I  have  been  out  in  the 
country;  down  by  the  sea  on  my  favourite  coast  be- 
tween Granton  and  Queensferry.  There  was  a  deli- 
cate, delicious  haze  over  the  firth  and  sands  on  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  was  the  shadow  of  the  woods 
all  riven  with  great  golden  rifts  of  sunshine.  A  little 
faint  talk  of  waves  upon  the  beach;  the  wild  strange 
crying  of  seagulls  over  the  sea;  and  the  hoarse  wood- 
pigeons  and  shrill,  sweet  robins  full  of  their  autumn 
love-making  among  the  trees  made  up  a  delectable 
concerto  of  peaceful  noises.  I  spent  the  whole  after- 
noon among  these  sights  and  sounds  with  Simpson, 
And  we  came  home  from  Queensferry  on  the  outside 
of  the  coach  and  four,  along  a  beautiful  way  full  of 
ups  and  downs  among  woody,  uneven  country,  laid 
out  (fifty  years  ago,  I  suppose)  by  my  grandfather, 
on  the  notion  of  Hogarth's  line  of  beauty.  You  see 
my  taste  for  roads  is  hereditary. 

Friday. — I  was  wakened  this  morning  by  a  long 
flourish  of  bugles  and  a  roll  upon  the  drums— the 
reveille  at  the  Castle.  I  went  to  the  window;  it  was 
a  grey,  quiet  dawn,  a  few  people  passed  already  up 
the  street  between  the  gardens,  already  I  heard  the 
"noise  of  an  early  cab  somewhere  in  the  distance, 


82  LETTERS   OE  STEVENSON      [.873 

most  of  ihc  lamps  had  been  extinguished  but  not 
all,  and  there  were  two  or  three  lit  windows  in  the 
opposite  facade  that  showed  where  sick  people  and 
watchers  had  been  awake  all  night  and  knew  not 
yet  of  the  new,  cool  day.  This  appealed  to  me  with 
a  special  sadness:  how  often  in  the  old  times  my 
nurse  and  I  had  looked  across  at  these,  and  sym- 
pathised. 

I  wish  you  would  read  Michelet's  Louis  Quatorze 
el  la  Revocation  de  VEdit  de  Nantes.  I  read  it  out 
in  the  garden,  and  the  autumnal  trees  and  weather, 
and  my  own  autumnal  humour,  and  the  pitiable  pro- 
longed tragedies  of  Madame  and  of  Molibre,  as  they 
look,  darkling  and  sombre,  out  of  their  niches  in  the 
great  gingerbread  facade  of  the  Grand  Age,  go  won- 
derfully hand  in  hand. 

I  wonder  if  my  revised  paper  has  pleased  the 
Saturday?  If  it  has  not,  I  shall  be  rather  sorry — no, 
very  sorry  indeed — but  not  surprised  and  certainly 
not  hurt.  It  will  be  a  great  disappointment;  but  I 
am  glad  to  say  that,  among  all  my  queasy,  trouble- 
some feelings,  I  have  not  a  sensitive  vanity.  Not 
that  I  am  not  as  conceited  as  you  know  me  to  be; 
only  I  go  easy  over  the  coals  in  that  matter. 

I  have  been  out  reading  Hallam  in  the  garden; 
and  have  been  talking  with  my  old  friend  the  gar- 
dener, a  man  of  singularly  hard  favour  and  few 
teeth.  He  consulted  me  this  afternoon  on  the  choice 
of  books,  premising  that  his  taste  ran  mainly  on  war 
and  travel.  On  travel  I  had  to  own  at  once  my 
ignorance.  I  suggested  Kinglake,  but  he  had  read 
that;  and  so,  finding  myself  here  unhorsed,  I  turned 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  83 

about  and  at  last  recollected  Southey's  Lives  of  the 
Admirals,  and  the  volumes  of  Macaulay  containing 
the  wars  of  William.  Can  you  think  of  any  other 
for  this  worthy  man  ?  I  believe  him  to  hold  me  in  as 
high  an  esteem  as  any  one  can  do;  and  I  reciprocate 
his  respect,  for  he  is  quite  an  intelligent  companion. 

On  Saturday  morning  I  read  Morley's  article 
aloud  to  Bob  in  one  of  the  walks  of  the  public  gar- 
den. I  was  full  of  it  and  read  most  excitedly;  and 
we  were  ever,  as  we  went  to  and  fro,  passing  a  bench 
where  a  man  sat  reading  the  Bible  aloud  to  a  small 
circle  of  the  devout.  This  man  is  well  known  to  me, 
sits  there  all  day,  sometimes  reading,  sometimes 
singing,  sometimes  distributing  tracts.  Bob  laughed 
much  at  the  opposition  preachers — I  never  noticed 
it  till  he  called  my  attention  to  the  other;  but  it  did 
not  seem  to  me  Hke  opposition — does  it  to  you? — 
each  in  his  way  was  teaching  what  he  thought  best. 

Last  night,  after  reading  Walt  Whitman  a  long 
while  for  my  attempt  to  write  about  him,  I  got  tete- 
montce,  rushed  out  up  to  M.  S.,  came  in,  took  out 
Leaves  of  Grass,  and  without  giving  the  poor  un- 
believer time  to  object,  proceeded  to  wade  into  him 
with  favourite  passages.  I  had  at  least  this  triumph, 
that  he  swore  he  must  read  some  more  of  him. — 
Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Louis  Stevenson 


84  LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      (1873 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

On  (he  question  of  tlie  authorship  of  the  Oile  lo  the  Cuckoo,  which 
Burke  thought  the  most  beautiful  lyric  in  our  language,  the  debalc 
is  between  the  claims  of  John  Logan,  minister  of  South  Lcith  (1745- 
1785),  and  his  friend  and  fellow-worker  Michael  Bruce.  Those  of 
Logan  have,  I  believe,  been  now  vindicated  past  doubt. 

{Edinhurgh\  Saturday,  October  4,  187,5 

It  is  a  little  sharp  to-day;  but  bright  and  sunny 
with  a  sparkle  in  the  air,  which  is  delightful  after 
four  days  of  unintermitting  rain.  In  the  streets  I 
saw  two  men  meet  after  a  long  separation,  it  was 
plain.  They  came  forward  with  a  little  run  and 
leaped  at  each  other's  hands.  You  never  saw  such 
bright  eyes  as  they  both  had.  It  put  one  in  a  good 
humour  to  see  it. 

8  p.m. — I  made  a  little  more  out  of  my  work  than 
I  have  made  for  a  long  while  back:  though  even  now 
I  cannot  make  things  fall  into  sentences — they  only 
sprawl  over  the  paper  in  bald  orphan  clauses.  Then 
I  was  about  in  the  afternoon  with  Baxter;  and  we 
had  a  good  deal  of  fun,  first  rhyming  on  the  names 
of  all  the  shops  we  passed,  and  afterwards  buying 
needles  and  quack  drugs  from  open-air  vendors, 
and  taking  much  pleasure  in  their  inexhaustible  elo- 
quence. Every  now  and  then  as  we  went,  Arthur's 
Seat  showed  its  head  at  the  end  of  a  street.  Now, 
to-day  the  blue  sky  and  the  sunshine  were  both  en- 
tirely wintry;  and  there  was  about  the  hill,  in  these 
glimpses,  a  sort  of  thin,  unreal,  crystalline  distinct- 
ness that  I  have  not  often  seen  excelled.  As  the  sun 
began  to  go  down  over  the  valley  between  the  new 


^T.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  85 

town  and  the  old,  the  evening  grew  resplendent;  all 
the  gardens  and  low-lying  buildings  sank  back  and 
became  almost  invisible  in  a  mist  of  wonderful  sun, 
and  the  Castle  stood  up  against  the  sky,  as  thin  and 
sharp  in  outline  as  a  castle  cut  out  of  paper.  Baxter 
made  a  good  remark  about  Princes  Street,  that  it 
was  the  most  elastic  street  for  length  that  he  knew; 
sometimes  it  looks,  as  it  looked  to-night,  intermi- 
nable, a  way  leading  right  into  the  heart  of  the  red 
sundown;  sometimes,  again,  it  shrinks  together,  as 
if  for  warmth,  on  one  of  the  withering,  clear  east- 
windy  days,  until  it  seems  to  lie  underneath  your  feet. 
I  want  to  let  you  see  these  verses  from  an  Ode  to 
the  Cuckoo,  written  by  one  of  the  ministers  of  Leith 
in  the  middle  of  last  century — the  palmy  days  of 
Edinburgh — who  was  a  friend  of  Hume  and  Adam 
Smith  and  the  whole  constellation.  The  authorship 
of  these  beautiful  verses  has  been  most  truculently 
fought  about;  but  whoever  wrote  them  (and  it  seems 
as  if  this  Logan  had)  they  are  lovely — 

'What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  the  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest,  in  other  lands 
Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird!  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  dear; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year. 

O  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee! 

We'd  make  on  joyful  wing 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  spring.' 


86  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [1873 

Sunday.— 1  have  been  at  church  with  my  mother, 
where  we  heard  'Arise,  shine,'  sung  excellently  well, 
and  my  mother  was  so  much  upset  with  it  that  she 
nearly  had  to  leave  church.  This  was  the  antidote, 
however,  to  fifty  minutes  of  solid  sermon,  varra 
neavy.  I  have  been  sticking  in  to  Walt  Whitman; 
nor  do  I  think  I  have  ever  laboured  so  hard  to  attain 
so  small  a  success.  Still,  the  thing  is  taking  shape, 
I  think;  I  know  a  little  better  what  I  want  to  say 
all  through;  and  in  process  of  time  possibly  I  shall 
manage  to  say  it.  I  must  say  I  am  a  very  bad  work- 
man, tnais  'fai  du  courage:  I  am  indefatigable  at  re- 
writing and  bettering,  and  surely  that  humble  quality 
should  get  me  on  a  little. 

Monday,  October  6.— It  is  a  magnificent  glimmer- 
ing moonlight  night,  with  a  wild,  great  west  wind 
abroad,  flapping  above  one  like  an  immense  banner, 
and  every  now  and  again  swooping  furiously  against 
my  windows.  The  wind  is  too  strong  perhaps,  and 
the  trees  are  certainly  too  leafless  for  much  of  that 
wide  rustle  that  we  both  remember;  there  is  only  a 
sharp,  angry,  sibilant  hiss,  like  breath  drawn  with 
the  strength  of  the  elements  through  shut  teeth,  that 
one  hears  between  the  gusts  only.  I  am  in  exceflcnt 
humour  with  myself,  for  I  have  worked  hard  and  not 
altogether  fruitlessly;  and  I  wished  before  I  turned 
in  just  to  tell  you  that  things  were  so.  My  dear 
friend,  I  feel  so  happy  when  I  think  that  you  remem- 
ber me  kindly.  I  have  been  up  to-night  lecturing  to  a 
friend  on  life  and  duties  and  what  a  man  could  do; 
a  coal  ofl"  the  altar  had  been  laid  on  my  lips,  and  I 
talked  quite  above  my  average,  and  hope  I  spread, 


AET  23]  MRS.    SITWELL  .     87 

what  you  would  wish  to  see  spread,  into  one  person's 
heart;  and  with  a  new  hght  upon  it. 

I  shall  tell  you  a  story.  Last  Friday  I  went  down 
to  Portobello,  in  the  heavy  rain,  with  an  uneasy  wind 
blowing  par  rafales  off  the  sea  (or  '  en  rafales '  should 
it  be?  or  what?)  As  I  got  down  near  the  beach  a 
poor  woman,  oldish,  and  seemingly,  lately  at  least, 
respectable,  followed  me  and  made  signs.  She  was 
drenched  to  the  skin,  and  looked  wretched  below 
wretchedness.  You  know,  I  did  not  like  to  look  back 
at  her;  it  seemed  as  if  she  might  misunderstand 
and  be  terribly  hurt  and  slighted;  so  I  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  street — there  was  no  one  else  within  sight 
in  the  wet — and  lifted  up  my  hand  very  high  with 
some  money  in  it.  I  heard  her  steps  draw  heavily 
near  behind  me,  and,  when  she  was  near  enough  to 
see,  I  let  the  money  fall  in  the  mud  and  went  off 
at  my  best  walk  without  ever  turning  round.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  story;  and  yet  you  will  understand 
how  much  there  is,  if  one  chose  to  set  it  forth.  You 
see,  she  was  so  ugly;  and  you  know  there  is  something 
terribly,  miserably  pathetic  in  a  certain  smile,  a  cer- 
tain sodden  aspect  of  invitation  on  such  faces.  It  is 
so  terrible,  that  it  is  in  a  way  sacred;  it  means  the 
outside  of  degradation  and  (what  is  worst  of  all  in 
life)  false  position.  I  hope  you  understand  me  right- 
ly.— Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


88  LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [1873 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Ediiihurgh],  Tuesday,  October  14,  1873 

My  father  has  returned  in  Ijctter  heaUh,  and  I  am 
more  delighted  tlian  I  can  well  tell  you.  The  one 
trouble  that  I  can  see  no  way  through  is  that  his 
health,  or  my  mother's,  should  give  way.  To-night, 
as  I  was  walking  along  Princes  Street,  I  heard  the 
bugles  sound  the  recall.  I  do  not  think  I  had  ever 
remarked  it  before;  there  is  something  of  unspeak- 
able appeal  in  the  cadence.  I  felt  as  if  something 
yearningly  cried  to  me  out  of  the  darkness  overhead 
to  come  thither  and  find  rest;  one  felt  as  if  there  must 
be  warm  hearts  and  bright  fires  waiting  for  one  up 
there,  where  the  buglers  stood  on  the  damp  pavement 
and  sounded  their  friendly  invitation  forth  into  the 
night. 

Wednesday.— I  may  as  well  tell  you  exactly  about 
my  health.  I  am  not  at  all  ill;  have  quite  recovered; 
only  I  am  what  MM.  les  medecins  call  below  par; 
w^iich,  in  plain  English,  is  that  I  am  weak.  With 
tonics,  decent  weather,  and  a  litde  cheerfulness,  that 
will  go  away  in  its  turn,  and  I  shall  be  all  right  again. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  what  you  say  about  the  Exam. ; 
until  quite  lately  I  have  treated  that  pretty  cavalierly, 
for  I  say  honestly  that  I  do  not  mind  being  plucked; 
I  shall  just  have  to  go  up  again.  We  travelled  with 
the  Lord  Advocate  the  other  day,  and  he  strongly 
advised  me  in  my  father's  hearing  to  go  to  the  English 
Bar;  and  the  Lord  Advocate's  advice  goes  a  long  way 
in  Scotland.     It  is  a  sort  of  special  legal  revelation. 

0' 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  89 

Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  don't,  of  course,  want 
to  be  plucked;  but  so  far  as  my  style  of  knowledge 
suits  them,  I  cannot  make  much  betterment  on  it  in  a 
month.  If  they  wish  scholarship  more  exact,  I  must 
take  a  new  lease  altogether. 

Thursday. — My  head  and  eyes  both  gave  in  this 
morning,  and  I  had  to  take  a  day  of  complete  idle- 
ness. I  was  in  the  open  air  all  day,  and  did  no 
thought  that  I  could  avoid,  and  I  think  I  have  got 
my  head  between  my  shoulders  again;  however,  I 
am  not  going  to  do  much.  I  don't  want  you  to  run 
away  with  any  fancy  about  my  being  ill.  Given  a 
person  weak  and  in  some  trouble,  and  working  longer 
hours  than  he  is  used  to,  and  you  have  the  matter  in  a 
nutshell.  You  should  have  seen  the  sunshine  on  the 
hill  to-day;  it  has  lost  now  that  crystalline  clearness, 
as  if  the  medium  were  spring-water  (you  see,  I  am 
stupid!);  but  it  retains  that  wonderful  thinness  of 
outline  that  makes  the  delicate  shape  and  hue  savour 
better  in  one's  mouth,  like  fine  wine  out  of  a  finely- 
blown  glass.  The  birds  are  all  silent  now  but  the 
crows.  I  sat  a  long  time  on  the  stairs  that  lead  down 
to  Duddingston  Loch — a  place  as  busy  as  a  great 
town  during  frost,  but  now  solitary  and  silent;  and 
when  I  shut  my  eyes  I  heard  nothing  but  the  wind  in 
the  trees;  and  you  know  all  that  went  through  me, 
I  dare  say,  without  my  saying  it. 

II. — I  am  now  all  right.  I  do  not  expect  any  tic 
to-night,  and  shall  be  at  work  again  to-morrow.  I 
have  had  a  day  of  open  air,  only  a  little  modified  by 
Le  Capitaine  Fracasse  before  the  dining-room  fire.  I 
must  write  no  more,  for  I  am  sleepy  after  two  nights. 


90  LETrKRS   OF   SIKVKNSON      [.873 

to  quote  my  book,  ' sinon  blanches,  du  mains  grises^; 
and  so  I  must  go  to  bed  and  faithfully,  hoggishly 
slumber. — Your  faithful 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

On  the  advice  of  the  I>orfl  Advocate  it  had  been  agreed  that 
Stevenson  should  present  himself  for  admission  as  a  student  at  one 
of  the  IvOndon  Inns  of  Court  and  should  come  to  town  after  the 
middle  of  October  to  be  examined  for  that  purjx)se.  The  following 
two  letters  refer  to  this  purpose  and  to  the  formalities  required  for 
effecting  it: — 

[Edinburgh,  Oct.  15,  1873],  Wednesday 

MY  DEAR  colvin, — Of  course  I  knew  as  well  as  you 
that  I  was  merely  running  before  an  illness;  but  I 
thought  I  should  be  in  time  to  escape.  However  I 
was  knocked  over  on  Monday  night  with  a  bad 
sore  throat,  fever,  rheumatism  and  a  threatening  of 
pleurisy,  which  last  is,  I  think,  gone.  I  still  hope  to 
be  able  to  get  away  early  next  week,  though  I  am  not 
very  clear  as  to  how  I  shall  manage  the  journey.  If 
I  don't  get  away  on  Wednesday  at  latest,  I  lose  my 
excuse  for  going  at  all,  and  I  do  wish  to  escape  a 
little  while. 

I  shall  see  about  the  form  when  I  get  home,  which 
I  hope  will  be  to-morrow  (I  was  taken  ill  in  a  friend's 
house  and  have  not  yet  been  moved). 

How  could  a  broken-down  engineer  expect  to  make 
anything  of  Roads.  Requiescant.  When  we  get  well 
(and  if  we  get  well),  we  shall  do  something  better. 
— Yours  sincerely, 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 

Ye  couche  of  pain. 


AET.  23]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  91 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  October  i6,  1873],  Thursday 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  am  at  my  wits'  end  about  this 
abominable  form  of  admission.  I  don't  know  what 
the  devil  it  is;  I  haven't  got  one  even  if  I  did,  and 
so  can't  sign. 

Monday  night  is  the  very  earliest  on  which  (even  if 
I  go  on  mending  at  the  very  great  pace  I  have  made 
already)  I  can  hope  to  be  in  London  myself.  But 
possibly  it  is  only  intimation  that  requires  to  be  made 
on  Tuesday  morning;  and  one  may  possess  oneself  of 
a  form  of  admission  up  to  the  eleventh  hour.  I  send 
herewith  a  letter  which  I  must  ask  you  to  cherish,  as 
I  count  it  a  sort  of  talisman.  Perhaps  you  may  un- 
derstand it,  I  don't. 

If  you  don't  understand  it,  please  do  not  trouble 
and  we  must  just  hope  that  Tuesday  morning  will  be 
early  enough  to  do  all.  Of  course  I  fear  the  exam, 
will  spin  me;  indeed  after  this  bodily  and  spiritual 
crisis  I  should  not  dream  of  coming  up  at  all;  only 
that  I  require  it  as  a  pretext  for  a  moment's  escape, 
which  I  want  much. 

I  am  so  glad  that  Roads  has  got  in.  I  had  almost 
as  soon  have  it  in  the  Portfolio  as  the  Saturday;  the 
P.  is  so  nicely  printed  and  I  am  gourmet  in  type.  I 
don't  know  how  to  thank  you  for  your  continual  kind- 
ness to  me;  and  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  even  feel  grate- 
ful enough— you  have  let  your  kindnesses  come  on 
me  so  easily.— Yours  sincerely, 

Louis  Stevenson. 


92  LETTERS   OE   STEVENSON      [.873 


To  Mrs.  Sit\m:ll 

When  Stevenson  a  few  days  later  came  to  London,  it  was  before 
the  physicians  and  not  the  lawyers  that  he  must  present  himself; 
and  the  result  of  an  examination  by  Sir  Andrew  Clark  was  his 
prompt  and  jiercmptory  des|)att  h  to  Mentonc  for  a  winter's  rest  and 
sunshine  at  a  distance  from  all  causes  of  mental  agitation.  This 
episode  of  his  life  gave  occasion  to  the  essay  Ordered  South,  the 
only  one  of  his  writings  in  which  he  took  the  invalid  point  of  view 
or  allowed  his  health  troubles  in  any  degree  to  colour  his  work. 
Travelling  south  by  slow  stages,  he  wrote  on  the  way  a  long  diar)'- 
letter  from  which  extracts  follow: — 

Avignon  [November  1873] 

I  HAVE  just  read  your  letter  upon  the  top  of  the 
hill  beside  the  church  and  castle.  The  whole  air  was 
filled  with  sunset  and  the  sound  of  bells;  and  I  wish  I 
could  give  you  the  least  notion  of  the  soiithernness  and 
Proi'en(aIily  of  all  that  I  saw. 

I  cannot  write  while  I  am  travelling;  c^est  un  defaiU; 
but  so  it  is.  I  must  have  a  certain  feeling  of  being  at 
home,  and  my  head  must  have  time  to  settle.  The 
new  images  oppress  me,  and  I  have  a  fever  of  restless- 
ness on  me.  You  must  not  be  disappointed  at  such 
shabby  letters;  and  besides,  remember  my  poor  head 
and  the  fanciful  crawling  in  the  spine. 

I  am  back  again  in  the  stage  of  thinking  there  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  me,  which  is  a  good  sign; 
but  I  am  wretchedly  nervous.  Anything  like  rude- 
ness I  am  simply  babyishly  afraid  of;  and  noises,  and 
especially  the  sounds  of  certain  voices,  are  the  devil 
to  me.  A  blind  poet  whom  I  found  selling  his  im- 
mortal works  in  the  streets  of  Sens,  captivated  me 
with  the  remarkable  equable  strength  and  sweetness 
of  his  voice;  and  I  listened  a  long  while  and  bought 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  93 

some  of  the  poems;  and  now  this  voice,  after  I  had 
thus  got  it  thoroughly  into  my  head,  proved  false  metal 
and  a  really  bad  and  horrible  voice  at  bottom.  It 
haunted  me  some  time,  but  I  think  I  am  done  with  it 
now. 

I  hope  you  don't  dislike  reading  bad  style  like  this 
as  much  as  I  do  writing  it:  it  hurts  me  when  neither 
words  nor  clauses  fall  into  their  places,  much  as  it 
would  hurt  you  to  sing  when  you  had  a  bad  cold  and 
your  voice  deceived  you  and  missed  every  other  note. 
I  do  feel  so  inclined  to  break  the  pen  and  write  no 
more;   and  here  apropos  begins  my  back. 

After  dinner. — It  blows  to-night  from  the  north 
down  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  and  everything  is  so 
cold  that  I  have  been  obliged  to  indulge  in  a  fire. 
There  is  a  fine  crackle  and  roar  of  burning  wood  in 
the  chimney  which  is  very  homely  and  companionable, 
though  it  does  seem  to  postulate  a  town  all  white  with 
snow  outside. 

I  have  bought  Sainte-Beuve's  Chateaubriand  and 
am  immensely  delighted  with  the  critic.  Chateau- 
briand is  more  antipathetic  to  me  than  anyone  else  in 
the  world. 

I  begin  to  wish  myself  arrived  to-night.  Travel- 
ling, when  one  is  not  quite  well,  has  a  good  deal  of 
unpleasantness.  One  is  easily  upset  by  cross  inci- 
dents, and  wants  that  belle  humeur  and  spirit  of  ad- 
venture that  makes  a  pleasure  out  of  what  is  un- 
pleasant. 

Tuesday,  November  11th. — There!  There's  a  date 
for  you.  I  shall  be  in  Mentone  for  my  birthday,  with 
plenty  of  nice  letters  to  read.     I  went  away  across  the 


94  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.87., 

Rhone  and  up  the  hill  on  the  other  side  that  I  might  see 
the  town  from  a  distance.  Avignon  followed  me  with 
its  bells  and  drums  and  bugles;  for  the  old  city  has 
no  equal  for  multitude  of  such  noises.  Crossing  the 
bridge  and  seeing  the  brown  turbid  water  foam  and 
eddy  about  the  piers,  one  could  scarce  believe  one's 
eyes  when  one  looked  down  upon  the  stream  and  saw 
the  smooth  blue  mirroring  tree  and  hill.  Over  on 
the  other  side,  the  sun  beat  down  so  furiously  on  the 
white  road  that  I  was  glad  to  keep  in  the  shadow 
and,  when  the  occasion  offered,  to  turn  aside  among 
the  olive-yards.  It  was  nine  years  and  six  months 
since  I  had  been  in  an  olive-yard.  I  found  myself 
much  changed,  not  so  gay,  but  wiser  and  more  happy. 
I  read  your  letter  again,  and  sat  awhile  looking  down 
over  the  tawny  plain  and  at  the  fantastic  outline  of 
the  city.  The  hills  seemed  just  fainting  into  the  sky; 
even  the  great  peak  above  Carpentras  (Lord  knows 
how  many  metres  above  the  sea)  seemed  unsubstan- 
tial and  thin  in  the  breadth  and  potency  of  the 
sunshine. 

I  should  like  to  stay  longer  here  but  I  can't.  I  am 
driven  forward  by  restlessness,  and  leave  this  after- 
noon about  two.  I  am  just  going  out  now  to  visit 
again  the  church,  castle,  and  hill,  for  the  sake  of  the 
magnificent  panorama,  and  besides,  because  it  is  the 
friendliest  spot  in  all  Avignon  to  me. 

Later. — You  cannot  picture  to  yourself  anything 
more  steeped  in  hard  bright  sunshine  than  the  view 
from  the  hill.  The  immovable  inky  shadow  of  the 
old  bridge  on  the  fleeting  surface  of  the  yellow  river 
seemed  more  solid  than  the  bridge  itself.     Just  in  the 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  95 

place  where  I  sat  yesterday  evening  a  shaven  man  in 
a  velvet  cap  was  studying  music — evidently  one  of 
the  singers  for  La  Muette  de  Portici  at  the  theatre 
to-night.  I  turned  back  as  I  went  away:  the  white 
Christ  stood  out  in  strong  relief  on  his  brown  cross 
against  the  blue  sky,  and  the  four  kneeling  angels 
and  lanterns  grouped  themselves  about  the  foot  with 
a  symmetry  that  was  almost  laughable;  the  musician 
read  on  at  his  music,  and  counted  time  with  his  hand 
on  the  stone  step. 

Menton,  November  12th. — My  first  enthusiasm  was 
on  rising  at  Orange  and  throwing  open  the  shutters. 
Such  a  great  living  flood  of  sunshine  poured  in 
upon  me,  that  I  confess  to  having  danced  and  ex- 
pressed my  satisfaction  aloud;  in  the  middle  of 
which  the  boots  came  to  the  door  with  hot  water,  to 
my  great  confusion. 

To-day  has  been  one  long  delight,  coming  to  a 
magnificent  climax  on  my  arrival  here.  I  gave  up 
my  baggage  to  an  hotel  porter  and  set  off  to  walk  at 
once.  I  was  somewhat  confused  as  yet  as  to  my 
directions,  for  the  station  of  course  was  new  to  me, 
and  the  hills  had  not  sufficiently  opened  out  to  let  me 
recognise  the  peaks.  Suddenly,  as  I  was  going  for- 
ward slowly  in  this  confusion  of  mind,  I  was  met  by 
a  great  volley  of  odours  out  of  the  lemon  and  orange 
gardens,  and  the  past  linked  on  to  the  present,  and 
in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  whole 
scene  fell  before  me  into  order,  and  I  was  at  home. 
I  nearly  danced  again. 

I  suppose  I  must  send  off  this  to-night  to  notify  my 
arrival  in  safety  and  good-humour  and,  I  think,  in 


96  LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.873 

good  health,  before  relapsin<^  into  the  old  weekly 
vein.  I  hope  this  lime  to  send  you  a  weekly  dose  of 
sunshine  from  the  south,  instead  of  the  jet  of  snell 
Edinburgh,  cast  wind  that  used  to  was. — Ever  your 
faithful  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

Hotel  du  Pavilion,  Menlon, 
November  13,  1873 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — The  Place  is  not  where  I 
thought;  it  is  about  where  the  old  Post  Office  was. 
The  Hotel  dc  Londres  is  no  more  an  hotel.  I  have 
found  a  charming  room  in  the  Hotel  du  Pavilion, 
just  across  the  road  from  the  Prince's  Villa;  it  has 
one  window  to  the  south  and  one  to  the  east,  with 
a  superb  view  of  Mentone  and  the  hills,  to  which  I 
move  this  afternoon.  In  the  old  great  Place  there  is 
a  kiosque  for  the  sale  of  newspapers;  a  string  of 
omnibuses  (perhaps  thirty)  go  up  and  down  under 
the  plane-trees  of  the  Turin  Road  on  the  occasion  of 
each  train;  the  Promenade  has  crossed  both  streams, 
and  bids  fair  to  reach  the  Cap  Martin.  The  old 
chapel  near  Freeman's  house  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Gorbio  valley  is  now  entirely  submerged  under  a 
shining  new  villa,  with  pavilion  annexed;  over  which, 
in  all  the  pride  of  oak  and  chestnut  and  divers  col- 
oured marbles,  I  was  shown  this  morning  by  the 
obliging  proprietor.  The  Prince's  Palace  itself  is 
rehabilitated,  and  shines  afar  with  white  window- 
curtains  from  the  midst  of  a  garden,  all  trim  borders 
and  greenhouses  and  carefully  kept  walks.     On  the 


AET.  23]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON      97 

other  side,  the  villas  are  more  thronged  together, 
and  they  have  arranged  themselves,  shelf  after  shelf, 
behind  each  other.  I  see  the  ghmmer  of  nev^^  build- 
ings, too,  as  far  eastward  as  Grimaldi;  and  a  via- 
duct carries  (I  suppose)  the  railway  past  the  mouth 
of  the  bone  caves.  F.  Bacon  (Lord  Chancellor) 
made  the  remark  that  'Time  was  the  greatest  inno- 
vator'; it  is  perhaps  as  meaningless  a  remark  as  was 
ever  made;  but  as  Bacon  made  it,  I  suppose  it  is 
better  than  any  that  I  could  make.  Does  it  not  seem 
as  if  things  were  fluid?  They  are  displaced  and 
altered  in  ten  years  so  that  one  has  difficulty,  even 
with  a  memory  so  very  vivid  and  retentive  for  that 
sort  of  thing  as  mine,  in  identifying  places  where  one 
lived  a  long  while  in  the  past,  and  which  one  has 
kept  piously  in  mind  during  all  the  interval.  Never- 
theless, the  hills,  I  am  glad  to  say,  are  unaltered; 
though  I  dare  say  the  torrents  have  given  them  many 
a  shrewd  scar,  and  the  rains  and  thaws  dislodged 
many  a  boulder  from  their  heights,  if  one  were  only 
keen  enough  to  perceive  it.  The  sea  makes  the  same 
noise  in  the  shingle;  and  the  lemon  and  orange  gar- 
dens still  discharge  in  the  still  air  their  fresh  perfume; 
and  the  people  have  still  brown  comely  faces;  and 
the  Pharmacie  Gros  still  dispenses  English  medicines; 
and  the  invalids  (eheu!)  still  sit  on  the  promenade 
and  trifle  with  their  fingers  in  the  fringes  of  shawls 
and  wrappers;  and  the  shop  of  Pascal  Amarante 
still,  in  its  present  bright  consummate  flower  of  ag- 
grandisement and  new  paint,  offers  everything  that 
it  has  entered  into  people's  hearts  to  wish  for  in  the 
idleness  of  a  sanatorium;    and  the   'Chateau   des 


98  LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.87^, 

Morts'  is  still  at  the  top  of  the  town;  and  the  fort 
and  the  jetty  are  still  at  the  foot,  only  there  are  now 
two  jetties;  and — 1  am  out  of  breath.  (To  be  con- 
tinued in  our  next.) 

For  myself,  I  have  come  famously  throuj^h  the 
journey;  and  as  1  have  written  this  letter  (for  the  first 
time  for  ever  so  long)  with  ease  and  even  pleasure,  I 
think  my  head  must  be  better.  I  am  still  no  good  at 
coming  down  hills  or  stairs;  and  my  feet  are  more 
consistently  cold  than  is  quite  comfortable.  But, 
these  apart,  I  feel  well;  and  in  good  spirits  all  round. 

I  have  written  to  Nice  for  letters,  and  hope  to  get 
them  to-night.  Continue  to  address  Poste  Restante. 
Take  care  of  yourselves. 

This  is  my  birthday,  by  the  way — O,  I  said  that 
before.     Adieu. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Mcnton,  November  13,  1873 

I  MUST  pour  out  my  disgust  at  the  absence  of  a 
letter;   my  birthday  nearly  gone,  and  devil  a  lettcr- 
I  beg  pardon.     After  all,  now  1  think  of  it,  it  is  only 
a  week  since  I  left. 

I  have  here  the  nicest  room  in  Mcntonc.  Let  mc 
explain.  Ah!  there's  the  bell  for  the  table  d'hote. 
Now  to  see  if  there  is  anyone  conversable  within  these 
walls. 

In  the  interval  my  letters  have  come;  none  from 
you,  but  one  from  Bob,  which  both  pained  and 
pleased  me.     He  cannot  get  on  without  me  at  all,  he 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  99 

writes;  he  finds  that  I  have  been  the  whole  world 
for  him;  that  he  only  talked  to  other  people  in  order 
that  he  might  tell  me  afterwards  about  the  conver- 
sation. Should  I— I  really  don't  know  quite  what 
to  feel;  I  am  so  much  astonished,  and  almost  more 
astonished  that  he  should  have  expressed  it  than  that 
he  should  feel  it;  he  never  would  have  said  it,  I  know. 
I  feel  a  strange  sense  of  weight  and  responsibility. 
Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

In  the  latter  part  of  this  letter  will  be  found  the  germ  of  the  essay 

Ordered  South. 

Menton,  Sunday  [November  23,  1873] 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,— I  sat  a  long  while  up  among 
the  olive  yards  to-day  at  a  favourite  corner,  where  one 
has  a  fair  view  down  the  valley  and  on  to  the  blue 
floor  of  the  sea.     I  had  a  Horace  with  me,  and  read 
a  little;  but  Horace,  when  you  try  to  read  him  fairly 
under  the  open  heaven,  sounds  urban,  and  you  find 
something  of  the  escaped  townsman  in  his  descrip- 
tions of  the  country,  just  as  somebody  said  that  Mor- 
ris's sea-pieces  were  all  taken  from  the  coast.     I  tried 
for  long  to  hit  upon  some  language  that  might  catch 
ever  so  faintly  the  indefinable  shifting  colour  of  olive 
leaves;   and,  above  all,  the  changes  and  little  silver- 
ings that  pass  over  them,  like  blushes  over  a  face, 
when  the  wind  tosses  great  branches  to  and  fro;  but 
the  Muse  was  not  favourable.     A  few  birds  scattered 
here  and  there  at  wide  intervals  on  either  side  of  the 
valley  sang  the  little  broken  songs  of  late  autumn; 
and  there  was  a  great  stir  of  insect  life  in  the  grass 


100        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [i^u 

at  my  feet.  The  path  up  to  this  coign  of  vantage, 
where  I  think  I  shall  make  it  a  habit  to  ensconce 
myself  a  while  of  a  morning,  is  for  a  little  while 
common  to  the  peasant  and  a  little  clear  brooklet.  It 
is  pleasant,  in  the  tempered  grey  daylight  of  the  olive 
shadows,  to  see  the  people  picking  their  way  among 
the  stones  and  the  water  and  the  bramliles;  the 
women  especially,  with  the  weights  poised  on  their 
heads  and  walking  all  from  the  hips  with  a  certain 
graceful  deliberation. 

Tuesday. — I  have  been  to  Nice  to-day  to  see  Dr. 
Bennet;  he  agrees  with  Clark  that  there  is  no  disease; 
but  I  finished  up  my  day  with  a  lamentable  exhibition 
of  weakness.  I  could  not  remember  French,  or  at 
least  I  was  afraid  to  go  into  any  place  lest  I  should 
not  be  able  to  remember  it,  and  so  could  not  tell 
when  the  train  went.  At  last  I  crawled  up  to  the 
station  and  sat  down  on  the  steps,  and  just  steeped 
myself  there  in  the  sunshine  until  the  evening  began 
to  fall  and  the  air  to  grow  chilly.  This  long  rest  put 
me  all  right;  and  I  came  home  here  triumphantly 
and  ate  dinner  well.  There  is  the  full,  true,  and  par- 
ticular account  of  the  worst  day  I  have  had  since  I 
left  London.  I  shall  not  go  to  Nice  again  for  some 
time  to  come. 

Thursday. — I  am  to-day  quite  recovered,  and  got 
into  Mentone  to-day  for  a  book,  which  is  quite  a 
creditable  walk.  As  an  intellectual  being  I  have  not 
yet  begun  to  re-exist;  my  immortal  soul  is  very  nearly 
extinct;  but  we  must  hope  the  best.  Now,  do  take 
warning  by  me.  I  am  set  up  by  a  beneficent  provi- 
dence at  the  corner  of  the  road,  to  warn  you  to  flee 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  loi 

from  the  hebetude  that  is  to  follow.  Being  sent  to 
the  South  is  not  much  good  unless  you  take  your 
soul  with  you,  you  see;  and  my  soul  is  rarely  with 
me  here.  I  don't  see  much  beauty.  I  have  lost  the 
key;  I  can  only  be  placid  and  inert,  and  see  the 
bright  days  go  past  uselessly  one  after  another;  there- 
fore don't  talk  foolishly  with  your  mouth  any  more 
about  getting  liberty  by  being  ill  and  going  south  via 
the  sickbed.  It  is  not  the  old  free-born  bird  that  gets 
thus  to  freedom;  but  I  know  not  what  manacled  and 
hidebound  spirit,  incapable  of  pleasure,  the  clay  of  a 
man.  Go  south!  Why,  I  saw  more  beauty  with  my 
eyes  healthfully  alert  to  see  in  two  wet  windy  Febru- 
ary afternoons  in  Scotland  than  I  can  see  in  my  beau- 
tiful olive  gardens  and  grey  hills  in  a  whole  week  in 
my  low  and  lost  estate,  as  the  Shorter  Catechism  puts 
it  somewhere.  It  is  a  pitiable  blindness,  this  blind- 
ness of  the  soul;  I  hope  it  may  not  be  long  with  me. 
So  remember  to  keep  well;  and  remember  rather 
anything  than  not  to  keep  well;  and  again  I  say, 
anything  rather  than  not  to  keep  well. 

Not  that  I  am  unhappy,  mind  you.  I  have  found 
the  words  already — placid  and  inert,  that  is  what  I 
am.  I  sit  in  the  sun  and  enjoy  the  tingle  all  over  me, 
and  I  am  cheerfully  ready  to  concur  with  any  one 
who  says  that  this  is  a  beautiful  place,  and  I  have  a 
sneaking  partiality  for  the  newspapers,  which  would 
be  all  very  well,  if  one  had  not  fallen  from  heaven 
and  were  not  troubled  with  some  reminiscence  of  the 
ineffable  aurore. 

To  sit  by  the  sea  and  to  be  conscious  of  nothing 
but  the  sound  of  the  waves,  and  the  simshine  over 


102        UriTHRS  OK   S'li:VKNSC)N      [.87.^ 

all  your  body,  is  not  unpleasant;  but  I  was  an  Arch- 
angel once. 

Friday. — If  you  knew  how  old  I  felt!  I  am  sure 
this  is  what  age  brings  with  it — this  carelessness,  this 
disenchantment,  this  continual  bodily  weariness.  I 
am  a  man  of  seventy:  O  Medea,  kill  me,  or  make  me 
young  again!' 

To-day  has  been  cloudy  and  mild;  and  I  have  lain 
a  great  while  on  a  bench  outside  the  garden  wall  (my. 
usual  place  now)  and  looked  at  the  dove-coloured  sea 
and  the  broken  roof  of  cloud,  but  there  was  no  seeing 
in  my  eye.  Let  us  hope  to-morrow  will  be  more 
profitable. 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  history  of  the  scruples  and  ideas  of  duty  in  regard  to  money 
here  expressed  is  set  forth  and  further  explained  in  retrospect  in  the 
fragment  called  Lay  Morals,  written  in  1879.  The  Wait  Whitman 
essay  is  not  that  afterwards  printed  in  Men  and  Books,  but  an  ear- 
lier and  more  enthusiastic  \ersion.  Mr.  Dowson,  I  bclif\e,  was 
the  father  of  the  unfortunate  poet,  the  late  Mr.  Ernest  Dowson. 
ilis  acquaintance  was  the  lirst  result  of  Stevenson's  search  for  'any 
one  conversable'  in  the  hotel. 

Menlon,  Sunday  [November  30,  187,?] 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — To-day  is  as  hot  as  it  has  been 
in  the  sun;  and  as  I  was  a  little  tired  and  seedy,  I 
went  down  and  just  drank  in  sunshine.  A  strong 
wind  has  risen  out  of  the  west;  the  great  big  dead 
leaves  from  the  roadside  planes  scuttled  about  and 
chased  one  another  over  the  gravel  round  me  with  a 

'  Compare  the  paragrajjh  in  Ordered  South  describing  the  stal- 
of  mind  of  the  invalid  doubtful  of  recovery,  and  ending:  'He  will 
pray  for  Medea;   when  she  comes,  let  her  either  rejuvenate  or  slay.' 


AET. 


;]  MRS.   SITWELL  103 


noise  like  little  waves  under  the  keel  of  a  boat,  and 
jumped  up  sometimes  on  to  my  lap  and  into  my  face. 
I  lay  down  on  my  back  at  last,  and  looked  up  into 
the  sky.  The  white  corner  of  the  hotel  with  a  wide 
projection  at  the  top,  stood  out  in  dazzling  relief; 
and  there  was  nothing  else,  save  a  few  of  the  plane 
leaves  that  had  got  up  wonderfully  high  and  turned 
and  eddied  and  flew  here  and  there  like  little  pieces 
of  gold  leaf,  to  break  the  extraordinary  sea  of  blue. 
It  was  bluer  than  anything  in  the  world  here;  won- 
derfully blue,  and  looking  deeply  peaceful,  although 
in  truth  there  was  a  high  wind  blowing. 

I  am  concerned  about  the  plane  leaves.  Hitherto 
it  has  always  been  a  great  feature  to  see  these  trees 
standing  up  head  and  shoulders  and  chest — head  and 
body,  in  fact— above  the  wonderful  blue-grey-greens 
of  the  olives,  in  one  glory  of  red  gold.  Much  more 
of  this  wind,  and  the  gold,  I  fear,  will  be  all 
spent. 

9.20. — I  must  write  you  another  little  word.  I 
have  found  here  a  new  friend,  to  whom  I  grow  daily 
more  devoted — George  Sand.  I  go  on  from  one 
novel  to  another  and  think  the  last  I  have  read  the 
most  sympathetic  and  friendly  in  tone,  until  I  have 
read  another.  It  is  a  life  in  dreamland.  Have  you 
read  Mademoiselle  Merquem? 

Monday. — I  did  not  quite  know  last  night  what  to 
say  to  you  about  Mdlle  Merquem.  If  you  want  to  be 
unpleasantly  moved,  read  it. 

I  am  gloomy  and  out  of  spirits  to-night  in  conse- 
quence of  a  ridiculous  scene  at  the  table  d'hote,  where 
a  parson  whom  I  rather  liked  took  offence  at  some- 


104        LKTTKRS   OF  STEVENSON      [..s?.^ 

thing  I  said  and  we  had  almost  a  quarrel.  It  was 
mopped  up  and  stifled,  like  spilt  wine  with  a  napkin; 
but  it  leaves  an  unpleasant  impression. 

I  have  again  ceased  all  work,  because  I  felt  that  it 
strained  my  head  a  little,  and  so  I  have  resumed  the 
tedious  task  of  waiting  with  folded  hands  forbctlci 
days.  But  thanks  to  George  Sand  and  the  sunshine, 
I  am  very  jolly. 

That  last  word  was  so  much  out  of  key  that  I  could 
sit  no  longer,  and  went  away  to  seek  out  my  clergy- 
man and  apologise  to  liim.  He  was  gone  to  bed.  1 
don't  know  what  makes  me  take  this  so  much  to 
heart.  I  suppose  it's  nerves  or  pride  or  something; 
but  I  am  unhappy  about  it.  I  am  going  to  drown  my 
sorrows  in  Consuelo  and  burn  some  incense  in  my 
pipe  to  the  god  of  Contentment  and  Forgetfulness. 

I  do  not  know,  but  I  hope,  if  I  can  only  get  bet- 
ter, I  shall  be  a  help  to  you  soon  in  every  way  and 
no  more  a  trouble  and  burthen.  All  my  difficulties 
about  life  have  so  cleared  away;  the  scales  have  fal- 
len from  my  eyes,  and  the  broad  road  of  my  duty  lies 
out  straight  before  me  without  cross  or  hindrance. 
I  have  given  up  all  hope,  all  fancy  rather,  of  making 
literature  my  hold:  I  see  that  I  have  not  capacity 
enough.  My  hfe  shall  be,  if  I  can  make  it,  my  only 
business.  I  am  desirous  to  practise  now,  rather 
than  to  preach,  for  I  know  that  I  should  ever  preach 
badly,  and  men  can  more  easily  forgive  faulty  prac- 
tice than  dull  sermons.  If  Colvin  does  not  think 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  support  myself  soon  by  liter- 
ature, I  shall  give  it  up  and  go  (horrible  as  the 
thought  is  to  me)  into  an  office  of  some  sort:    the 


AET.  23l  MRS.   SITWELL  105 

first  the  main  question  is,  that  I  must  live  by  my 
own  hands;  after  that  come  the  others. 

You  will  not  regard  me  as  a  madman,  I  am  sure. 
It  is  a  very  rational  aberration  at  least  to  try  to  put 
your  beliefs  into  practice.  Strangely  enough,  it  has 
taken  me  a  long  time  to  see  this  distinctly  with  regard 
to  my  whole  creed;  but  I  have  seen  it  at  last,  praised 
be  my  sickness  and  my  leisure !  I  have  seen  it  at  last; 
the  sun  of  my  duty  has  risen;  I  have  enlisted  for  the 
first  time,  and  after  long  coquetting  with  the  shilling, 
under  the  banner  of  the  Holy  Ghost!  ^ 

8.15. — If  you  had  seen  the  moon  last  night!  It 
was  like  transfigured  sunshine;  as  clear  and  mellow, 
only  showing  everything  in  a  new  wonderful  signifi- 
cance. The  shadows  of  the  leaves  on  the  road  were 
so  strangely  black  that  Dowson  and  I  had  difficulty 
in  beheving  that  they  were  not  soHd,  or  at  least  pools 
of  dark  mire.  And  the  hills  and  the  trees,  and  the 
white  Italian  houses  with  fit  windows!  O!  nothing 
could  bring  home  to  you  the  keenness  and  the  reality 
and  the  wonderful  Unheimlichkeit  of  all  these.  When 
the  moon  rises  every  night  over  the  Italian  coast,  it 
makes  a  long  path  over  the  sea  as  yellow  as  gold. 

How  I  happened  to  be  out  in  the  moonlight  yester- 
day, was  that  Dowson  and  I  spent  the  evening  with 
an  odd  man  called  Bates,  who  played  Italian  music 
to  us  with  great  feeling;  all  which  was  quite  a  dissi- 
pation in  my  still  existence. 

Friday. — -I  cannot  endure  to  be  dependent  much 
longer,  it  stops  my  mouth.  Something  I  must  find 
shortly.     I   mean   when   I   am   able   for  anything. 

'  Alluding  to  Heine's  Ritter  von  dem  heiligen  Ceist. 


io6        LKTTFRS   OF  STEVENSON      [.s;,, 

Ilowerer  I  am  much  better  already;  and  have  been 
writing  not  altogether  my  worst  although  not  very 
well.  Walt  Whitman  is  stopped.  I  have  bemired 
it  so  atrociously  by  working  at  it  when  I  was  out  of 
humour  that  I  must  let  the  colour  dry;  and  alas! 
what  I  have  been  doing  in  its  place  doesn't  seem  to 
promise  any  money.  However,  it  is  all  practice  and 
it  interests  myself  extremely.  I  have  now  received 
£80,  some  £>,^  of  which  still  remain;  all  this  is  more 
debt  to  civilisation  and  my  fellowmen.  When  shall 
I  be  able  to  pay  it  back?  You  do  not  know  how 
much  this  money  question  begins  to  take  more  and 
more  importance  in  my  eyes  every  day.  It  is  an 
old  phrase  of  mine  that  money  is  the  atmosphere  of 
civilised  life,  and  I  do  hate  to  take  the  breath  out 
of  other  people's  nostrils.  I  live  here  at  the  rate  of 
more  than  £^  a  week  and  I  do  nothing  for  it.  If  I 
didn't  hope  to  get  well  and  do  good  work  yet  and 
more  than  repay  my  debts  to  the  world,  I  should 
consider  it  right  to  invest  an  extra  franc  or  two  in 
laudanum.     But  I  will  repay  it. — Always  your  faith- 

'  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Charles  Baxter 

[Menlon,  December  1873] 

MY  DEAR  BAXTER, — At  last,  I  must  write.  I  must 
say  straight  out  that  I  am  not  recovering  as  I  could 
wish.  I  am  no  stronger  than  I  was  when  I  came 
here,  and  I  pay  for  every  walk,  beyond  say  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  in  length,  by  one  or  two,  or  even  three,  days 
of  more  or  less  prostration.     Therefore  let  nobody  be 


AET.  23]  CHARLES   BAXTER  107 

down  upon  me  for  not  writing.  I  was  very  thank- 
ful to  you  for  answering  my  letter;  and  for  the 
princely  action  of  Simpson  in  writing  to  me,  I  mean 
before  I  had  written  to  him,  I  was  ditto  to  an  almost 
higher  degree.  I  hope  one  or  another  of  you  will 
write  again  soon;  and,  remember,  I  still  live  in  hope 
of  reading  Grahame  Murray's  address. 

I  have  not  made  a  joke,  upon  my  living  soul,  since 
I  left  London.  O !  except  one,  a  very  small  one,  that 
I  had  made  before,  and  that  I  very  timidly  repeated  in 
a  half-exhilarated  state  towards  the  close  of  dinner, 
like  one  of  those  dead-alive  flies,  that  we  see  pretend- 
ing to  be  quite  light  and  full  of  the  frivolity  of  youth 
in  the  first  sunshiny  days.  It  was  about  mothers' 
meetings,  and  it  was  damned  small,  and  it  was  my 
ewe  lamb— the  Lord  knows,  I  couldn't  have  made 
another  to  save  my  life— and  a  clergyman  quarrelled 
with  me,  and  there  was  as  nearly  an  explosion  as 
could  be.  This  has  not  fostered  my  leaning  towards 
pleasantry.     I  felt  that  it  was  a  very  cold,  hard  world 

that  night. 

My  dear  Charles,  is  the  sky  blue  at  Mentone? 
Was  that  your  question?  Well,  it  depends  upon 
what  you  call  blue;  it's  a  question  of  taste,  I  suppose. 
Is  the  sky  blue?  You  poor  critter,  you  never  saw 
blue  sky  worth  being  called  blue  in  the  same  day  with 
it.  And  I  should  rather  fancy  that  the  sun  did  shine 
I  should.  And  the  moon  doesn't  shine  either.  O 
no!  (This  last  is  sarcastic.)  Mentone  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  places  in  the  world,  and  has  always 
had  a  very  warm  corner  in  my  heart  since  first  I  knew 
it  eleven  years  ago. 


io8        LE'ITIlRS   of   S'lKVKNSON      [.R73 

iilh  December. — I  live  in  the  same  hotel  with  Lord 
X.  lie  has  black  whiskers,  and  has  been  successful 
in  raising  some  kids;  rather  a  melancholy  success; 
they  are  weedy  looking  kids  in  Highland  clo'.  They 
have  a  tutor  with  them  who  respires  I'iety  and  that 
kind  of  humble  your-lordship's-most-obedient  sort  of 
gentlemanliness  that  noblemen's  tutors  have  gener- 
ally. They  all  get  livings,  these  men,  and  silvery 
hair  and  a  gold  watch  from  their  attached  pupil;  and 
they  sit  in  the  porch  and  make  the  watch  repeat  for 
their  little  grandchildren,  and  tell  them  long  stories, 
beginning,  'When  I  was  private  tutor  in  the  family 
of,'  etc.,  and  the  grandchildren  cock  snooks  at  them 
behind  their  backs  and  go  away  whenever  they  can 
to  get  the  groom  to  teach  them  l:)ad  words. 

Sidney  Colvin  will  arrive  here  on  Saturday  or 
Sunday;  so  I  shall  have  someone  to  jaw  with.  And, 
seriously,  this  is  a  great  want.  I  have  not  been  all 
these  weeks  in  idleness,  as  you  may  fancy,  without 
much  thinking  as  to  my  future;  and  I  have  a  great 
deal  in  view  that  may  or  may  not  be  possible  (that  I 
do  not  yet  know),  but  that  is  at  least  an  object  and  a 
hope  before  me.  I  cannot  help  recurring  to  serious- 
ness a  moment  before  I  stop;  for  I  must  say  that 
living  here  a  good  deal  alone,  and  having  had  ample 
time  to  look  back  upon  my  past,  I  have  become  very 
serious  all  over.  If  I  can  only  get  back  my  health, 
by  God!  I  shall  not  be  as  useless  as  I  have  been. — 
Ever  yours,  mon  vieux, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


AET.  23]  MRS.   SITWELL  109 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  December  1873],  Sunday 

The  first  violet.  There  is  more  sweet  trouble  for 
the  heart  in  the  breath  of  this  small  flower  than  in  all 
the  wines  of  all  the  vineyards  of  Europe.  I  cannot 
contain  myself.  I  do  not  think  so  small  a  thing  has 
ever  given  me  such  a  princely  festival  of  pleasure.  I 
feel  as  if  my  heart  were  a  little  bunch  of  violets  in  my 
bosom;  and  my  brain  is  pleasantly  intoxicated  with 
the  wonderful  odour.  I  suppose  I  am  writing  non- 
sense, but  it  does  not  seem  nonsense  to  me.  Is  it  not 
a  wonderful  odour?  is  it  not  something  incredibly 
subtle  and  perishable  ?  It  is  like  a  wind  blowing  to 
one  out  of  fairyland.  No  one  need  tell  me  that  the 
phrase  is  exaggerated  if  I  say  that  this  violet  sings;  it 
sings  with  the  same  voice  as  the  March  blackbird; 
and  the  same  adorable  tremor  goes  through  one's 
soul  at  the  hearing  of  it. 

Monday. — All  yesterday  I  was  under  the  influence 
of  opium.  I  had  been  rather  seedy  during  the  night 
and  took  a  dose  in  the  morning,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  it  took  effect  upon  me.  I  had  a  day  of 
extraordinary  happiness;  and  when  I  went  to  bed 
there  was  something  almost  terrifying  in  the  pleasures 
that  besieged  me  in  the  darkness.  Wonderful  trem- 
ors filled  me;  my  head  swam  in  the  most  delirious 
but  enjoyable  manner;  and  the  bed  softly  oscillated 
with  me,  like  a  boat  in  a  very  gentle  ripple.  It  does 
not  make  me  write  a  good  style  apparently,  which  is 
just  as  well,  lest  I  should  be  tempted  to  renew  the 


no        LETTKRS   OF   STKVKNSON      [.873 

experiment;  and  some  verses  which  I  wrote  turn  out 
on  inspection  to  be  not  (juitc  equal  to  Kiibla  Khan. 
However,  I  was  happy,  and  the  recollection  is  not 
troubled  by  any  reaction  this  mornin<^. 

Wedmsday.— Do  you  know,  I  think  I  am  much 
better.  I  really  enjoy  things,  and  I  really  feel  dull 
occasionally,  neither  of  which  was  possible  with  me 
before;  and  though  I  am  still  tired  and  weak,  I 
almost  think  I  feel  a  stirring  among  the  dry  bones. 
O,  I  should  like  to  recover,  and  be  once  more  well 
and  happy  and  fit  for  work!  And  then  to  be  able  to 
begin  really  to  my  life;  to  have  done,  for  the  rest  of 
time,  wnth  preluding  and  doubting;  and  to  take  hold 
of  the  pillars  strongly  with  Samson— to  burn  my 
ships  with  (whoever  did  it).  O,  I  begin  to  feel  my 
spirits  come  back  to  me  again  at  the  thought! 

Thursday. — I  sat  along  the  beach  this  morning 
under  some  reeds  (or  canes — I  know  not  which  they 
are):  everything  was  so  tropical;  nothing  visible  but 
the  glaring  white  shingle,  the  blue  sea,  the  blue  sky, 
and  the  green  plumes  of  the  canes  thrown  out  against 
the  latter  some  ten  or  fifteen  feet  above  my  head. 
The  noise  of  the  surf  alone  broke  the  (juiet.  I  had 
somehow  got  Ueber  alien  Gipfeln  isl  Ruh  into  my 
head;  and  I  was  happy  for  I  do  not  know  how  long, 
sitting  there  and  repeating  to  myself  these  lines. 
It  is  wonderful  how  things  somehow  fall  into  a  full 
satisfying  harmony,  and  out  of  the  fewest  elements 
there  is  established  a  sort  of  small  perfection.  It  was 
so  this  morning.     I  did  not  want  anything  further. 


AET.  23]  MRS.  SITWELL  in 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

In  the  third  week  of  December  I  went  out  to  join  my  friend  for  a 
part  of  the  Christmas  vacation,  and  found  him  without  tangible 
disease,  but  very  weak  and  ailing;  ill-health  and  anxiety,  however, 
neither  then  nor  at  any  time  diminished  his  charm  as  a  companion. 
He  left  Mentone  to  meet  me  at  the  old  town  of  Monaco,  where  we 
spent  a  few  days  and  from  whence  these  stray  notes  of  nature  and 
human  nature  were  written. 

Monaco,  Tuesday  [December  1873] 

We  have  been  out  all  day  in  a  boat;  lovely  weather 
and  almost  dead  calm,  only  the  most  infinitesimal 
and  indeterminate  of  oscillations  moved  us  hither 
and  thither;  the  sails  were  duly  set,  and  flapped 
about  idly  overhead.  Our  boatman  was  a  man  of  a 
delightful  humour,  who  told  us  many  tales  of  the  sea, 
notably  one  of  a  doctor,  who  was  an  Englishman, 
and  who  seemed  almost  an  epitome  of  vices — 
drunken,  dishonest,  and  utterly  without  faith;  and 
yet  he  was  a  charmant  gar(on.  He  told  us  many 
amusing  circumstances  of  the  doctor's  incompetence 
and  dishonesty,  and  imitated  his  accent  with  a  sin- 
gular success.  I  couldn't  quite  see  that  he  was  a 
charming  gargon — 'O,  oui — comme  caractere,  un 
charmant  gargon.  We  landed  on  that  Cap  Martin, 
the  place  of  firs  and  rocks  and  myrtle  and  rose- 
mary of  which  I  spoke  to  you.  As  we  pulled  along 
in  the  fresh  shadow,  the  wonderfully  clean  scents 
blew  out  upon  us,  as  if  from  islands  of  spice — only 
how  much  better  than  cloves  and  cinnamon! 

Friday. — Colvin  and  I  are  sitting  on  a  seat  on  the 
battlemented  gardens  of  Old  Monaco.  The  day  is 
grey  and  clouded,  with  a  little  red  light  on  the  horizon, 


112        LKTTKRS   OF  STEVENSON      [1873 

and  the  sea,  hundreds  of  feet  below  us,  is  a  sort  of 
purple  dove-colour.  Shrub-geraniums,  firs,  and  aloes 
cover  all  available  shelves  and  terraces,  and  where 
these  become  impossible,  the  prickly  pear  precipi- 
tates headlong  downwards  its  bunches  of  oval  plates; 
so  that  the  whole  face  of  the  clilT  is  covered  with  an 
arrested  fall  (please  excuse  clumsy  language),  a  sort 
of  fall  of  the  evil  angels  petrified  midway  on  its  career. 
White  gulls  sail  past  below  us  every  now  and  then, 
sometimes  singly,  sometimes  by  twos  and  threes,  and 
sometimes  in  a  great  flight.  The  sharp  perfume  of 
the  shrub-geraniums  fills  the  air. 

I  cannot  write,  in  any  sense  of  the  word;  but  I  am 
as  happy  as  can  be,  and  wish  to  notify  the  fact, 
before  it  passes.  The  sea  is  blue,  grey,  purple  and 
green;  very  subdued  and  peaceful;  earlier  in  the  day 
it  was  marbled  by  small  keen  specks  of  sun  and 
larger  spaces  of  faint  irradiation;  but  the  clouds 
have  closed  together  now,  and  these  appearances 
are  no  more.  Voices  of  children  and  occasional  cry- 
ing of  gulls;  the  mechanical  noise  of  a  gardener 
somewhere  behind  us  in  the  scented  thicket;  and 
the  faint  report  and  rustle  of  the  waves  on  the  prec- 
ipice far  below,  only  break  in  upon  the  quietness  to 
render  it  more  complete  and  perfect. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


AET.  24]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON     113 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

After  spending  a  few  days  in  one  of  the  more  retired  hotels  of 
Monte  Carlo,  we  went  on  to  Mentone  and  settled  at  the  Hotel 
Mirabeau,  long  since,  I  believe,  defunct,  near  the  eastern  extremity 
of  the  town.  The  little  American  girl  mentioned  in  the  last  para- 
graph is  the  same  we  shall  meet  later  under  her  full  name  of  Marie 
Johnstone. 

[Hotel  Mirabeau],  Menton,  January  2nd,  1874 

Here  I  am  over  in  the  east  bay  of  Mentone,  where 
I  am  not  altogether  sorry  to  find  myself.  I  move  so 
little  that  I  soon  exhaust  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood of  my  dwelling  places.  Our  reason  for  com- 
ing here  was  however  very  simple.  Hobson's  choice. 
Mentone  during  my  absence  has  filled  marvellously. 

Continue  to  address  P.  R.^  Menton;  and  try  to 
conceive  it  as  possible  that  I  am  not  a  drivelling 
idiot.  When  I  wish  an  address  changed,  it  is  quite 
on  the  cards  that  I  shall  be  able  to  find  language 
explicit  enough  to  express  the  desire.  My  whole 
desire  is  to  avoid  complication  of  addresses.  It  is 
quite  fatal.  If  two  P.  R.'s  have  contradictory  orders 
they  will  continue  to  play  battledoor  and  shuttlecock 
with  an  unhappy  epistle,  which  will  never  get  farther 
afield  but  perish  there  miserably. 

You  act  too  much  on  the  principle  that  whatever 
I  do  is  done  unwisely;  and  that  whatever  I  do  not, 
has  been  culpably  forgotten.  This  is  wounding  to 
my  nat'ral  vanity. 

I  have  not  written  for  three  days  I  think;  but 
what  days!  They  were  very  cold;  and  I  must  say 
I  was  able  thoroughly  to  appreciate  the  blessings  of 

'  Paste  Restante. 


TI4       LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.ft74 

Mentone.  Old  Smoko  this  winter  would  evidently 
have  been  very  summary  with  me.  I  could  not 
stand  the  cold  at  all.  I  exhausted  all  my  own  and 
all  Colvin's  clothing;  I  then  retired  to  the  house,  and 
then  to  bed;  in  a  condition  of  sorrow  for  myself 
unequalled.  The  sun  is  forth  again  (laus  Deo)  and 
the  wind  is  milder,  and  I  am  greatly  re-established. 
A  certain  asperity  of  temper  still  lingers,  however, 
which  Colvin  supports  with  much  mildness. 

In  this  hotel,  I  have  a  room  on  the  first  floor! 
Luxury,  however,  is  not  altogether  regardless  of  ex- 
pense. We  only  pay  13  francs  per  day — 3  J  more 
than  at  the  Pavilion  on  the  third  floor.— And  beggars 
must  not  be  choosers.  We  were  very  nearly  house- 
less, the  night  we  came.  And  it  is  rarely  that  such 
winds  of  adversity  blow  men  into  king's  Palaces. 

Looking  over  what  has  gone  before,  it  seems  to 
me  that  it  is  not  strictly  polite.  I  beg  to  withdraw 
all  that  is  offensive. 

At  table  d'hote,  we  have  some  people  who  amuse 
us  much;  two  Americans,  who  would  try  to  pass  for 
French  people,  and  their  daughter,  the  most  charm- 
ing of  little  girls.  Both  Colvin  and  I  have  planned 
an  abduction  already.  The  whole  hotel  is  devoted 
to  her;  and  the  waiters  continually  do  smuggle  out 
comfits  and  fruit  and  pudding  to  her. 

All  well. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


AET.  24:  MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON    115 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

The  M'Laren  herein  mentioned  was  of  course  the  distinguished 
Scotch  politician  and  social  reformer,  Duncan  M'Laren,  for  sixteen 
years  AI.P.  for  Edinburgh. 

[Menton],  Sunday,  January  4,  1874 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — We  have  here  fallen  on  the 
very  pink  of  hotels.  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  more 
pleasantly  conducted  than  the  Pavilion,  for  that  were 
impossible;  but  the  rooms  are  so  cheery  and  bright 
and  new,  and  then  the  food!  I  never,  I  think,  so 
fully  appreciated  the  phrase  '  the  fat  of  the  land '  as 
I  have  done  since  I  have  been  here  installed.  There 
was  a  dish  of  eggs  at  dejemier  the  other  day,  over  the 
memory  of  which  I  lick  my  lips  in  the  silent  watches. 

Now  that  th,e  cold  has  gone  again,  I  continue  to 
keep  well  in  body,  and  already  I  begin  to  walk  a 
little  more.  My  head  is  still  a  very  feeble  imple- 
ment, and  easily  set  a-spinning;  and  I  can  do  noth- 
ing in  the  way  of  work  beyond  reading  books  that 
may,  I  hope,  be  of  some  use  to  me  afterwards. 

I  was  very  glad  to  see  that  M'Laren  was  sat  upon, 
and  principally  for  the  reason  why.  Deploring  as 
I  do  much  of  the  action  of  the  Trades  Unions,  these 
conspiracy  clauses  and  the  whole  partiality  of  the 
Master  and  Serv^ant  Act  are  a  disgrace  to  our  equal 
laws.  Equal  laws  become  a  byeword  when  what 
is  legal  for  one  class  becomes  a  criminal  offence  for 
another.  It  did  my  heart  good  to  hear  that  man 
tell  M'Laren  how,  as  he  had  talked  much  of  getting 
the  franchise  for  working  men,  he  must  now  be  con- 
tent to  see  them  use  it  now  they  had  got  it.     This 


ii6        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [.874 

is  a  smooth  stone  well  planted  in  the  foreheads  of 
certain  dilettanti  radicals,  after  M'Laren's  fashion, 
who  are  willing  to  give  the  working  men  words  and 
wind,  and  votes  and  the  like,  and  yet  think  to  keep 
all  the  advantages,  just  or  unjust,  of  the  wealthier 
classes  without  abatement.  I  do  hope  wise  men  will 
not  attempt  to  iight  the  working  men  on  the  head 
of  this  notorious  injustice.  Any  such  step  will  only 
precipitate  the  action  of  the  newly  enfranchised 
classes,  and  irritate  them  into  acting  hastily;  when 
what  we  ought  to  desire  should  be  that  they  should 
act  warily  and  little  for  many  years  to  come,  until 
education  and  habit  may  make  them  the  more  fit. 

All  this  (intended  for  my  father)  is  much  after  the 
fashion  of  his  own  correspondence.  I  confess  it  has 
left  my  own  head  exhausted;  I  hope  it  may  not 
produce  the  same  effect  on  yours.  But  I  want  him 
to  look  really  into  this  cjuestion  (both  sides  of  it,  and 
not  the  representations  of  rabid  middle-class  news- 
papers, sworn  to  support  all  the  little  tyrannies  of 
wealth),  and  I  know  he  will  be  convinced  that  this 
is  a  case  of  unjust  law;  and  that,  however  desirable 
the  end  may  seem  to  him,  he  will  not  be  Jesuit 
enough  to  think  that  any  end  will  justify  an  unjust 
law. 

Here  ends  the  political  sermon  of  your  affectionate 
(and  somewhat  dogmatical)  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


AET.  24]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON     117 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

In  the  first  week  of  January  I  went  for  some  necessary  work  to 
Paris,  with  the  intention  of  returning  towards  the  end  of  the  month. 
The  following  letter  introduces  the  Russian  sisters,  Madame  Zasset- 
sky  and  Madame  Garschine,  whose  society  and  that  of  their  chil- 
dren was  to  do  so  much  to  cheer  Stevenson  during  his  remaining 
months  on  the  Riviera.  The  French  painter  Robinet  (sometimes 
in  his  days  known  as  le  Raphael  des  cailloux,  from  the  minuteness 
of  detail  which  he  put  into  his  Provenfal  coast  landscapes)  was  a 
chivalrous  and  affectionate  soul  in  whom  R.  L.  S.  delighted  in  spite 
of  his  fervent  clerical  and  royalist  opinions. 

[Menion],  January  7,  1874 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  received  yesterday  two  most 
charming  letters — the  nicest  I  have  had  since  I  left — 
December  26th  and  January  ist:  this  morning  I 
got  January  3rd. 

Into  the  bargain  with  Marie,  the  American  girl, 
who  is  grace  itself,  and  comes  leaping  and  dancing 
simply  like  a  wave — like  nothing  else,  and  who  yes- 
terday was  Queen  out  of  the  Epiphany  cake,  and 
chose  Robinet  (the  French  painter)  as  her  favori 
with  the  most  pretty  confusion  possible — into  the 
bargain  with  Marie,  we  have  two  little  Russian  girls, 
with  the  youngest  of  whom,  a  little  polyglot  button 
of  a  three-year  old,  I  had  the  most  laughable  little 
scene  at  lunch  to-day.  I  was  watching  her  being 
fed  with  great  amusement,  her  face  being  as  broad 
as  it  is  long,  and  her  mouth  capable  of  unlimited 
extension;  when  suddenly,  her  eye  catching  mine, 
the  fashion  of  her  countenance  was  changed,  and 
regarding  me  with  a  really  admirable  appearance  of 
offended  dignity,  she  said  something  in  Italian  which 
made  everybody  laugh  much.     It  was  explained  to 


ii8        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.874 

me  that  she  had  said  I  was  very  poUsson  to  stare 
at  her.  After  this  she  was  somewhat  taken  up  with 
me,  and  after  some  examination  she  announced 
emphatically  to  the  whole  table,  in  German,  that  I 
was  a  MddcJwn;  which  word  she  repeated  with  shrill 
emphasis,  as  though  fearing  that  her  proposition 
would  be  called  in  question — MadcJien,  Mddclien, 
Miidchen,  Madchen.  This  hasty  conclusion  as  to  my 
sex  she  was  led  afterwards  to  revise,  I  am  informed; 
but  her  new  opinion  (which  seems  to  have  been  some- 
thing nearer  the  truth)  was  announced  in  a  third 
language  quite  unknown  to  me,  and  probably  Rus- 
sian. To  complete  the  scroll  of  her  accomplish- 
ments, she  was  brought  round  the  table  after  the 
meal  was  over,  and  said  good-bye  to  me  in  very 
commendable  English. 

The  weather  I  shall  say  nothing  about,  as  I  am 
incapable  of  explaining  my  sentiments  upon  that  sub- 
ject before  a  lady.  But  my  health  is  really  greatly 
improved:  I  begin  to  recognise  myself  occasionally 
now  and  again,  not  without  satisfaction. 

Please  remember  me  very  kindly  to  Professor 
Swan;  I  wish  I  had  a  story  to  send  him;  but  story, 
Lord  bless  you,  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir,  unless  it  is 
the  foregoing  adventure  with  the  little  polyglot. 
The  best  of  that  depends  on  the  significance  of 
polisson,  which  is  beautifully  out  of  place. 

Saturday,  loth  January. — The  little  Russian  kid  is 
only  two  and  a  half:  she  speaks  six  languages.  She 
and  her  sister  (aet.  8)  and  May  Johnstone  (act.  8) 
are  the  delight  of  my  life.  Last  night  I  saw  them  all 
dancing — O  it  was  jolly;  kids  are  what  is  the  matter 


AET.  24]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON    119 

with  me.  After  the  dancing,  we  all — that  is  the  two 
Russian  ladies,  Robinet  the  French  painter,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Johnstone,  two  governesses,  and  fitful  kids 
joining  us  at  intervals — played  a  game  of  the  stool  of 
repentance  in  the  Gallic  idiom. 

O — I  have  not  told  you  that  Colvin  is  gone;  how- 
ever, he  is  coming  back  again;  he  has  left  clothes  in 
pawn  to  me. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton],  Sunday,  nth  January  1874 

In  many  ways  this  hotel  is  more  amusing  than  the 
Pavilion.  There  are  the  children,  to  begin  with;  and 
then  there  are  games  every  evening — the  stool  of 
repentance,  question  and  answer,  etc.;  and  then  we 
speak  French,  although  that  is  not  exactly  an  ad- 
vantage in  so  far  as  personal  brilliancy  is  concerned. 

I  am  in  lovely  health  again  to-day:  I  walked  as  far 
as  the  Pont  St.  Louis  very  nearly,  besides  walking 
and  knocking  about  among  the  olives  in  the  after- 
noon. I  do  not  make  much  progress  with  my  French ; 
but  I  do  make  a  little,  I  think.  I  was  pleased  with 
my  success  this  evening,  though  I  do  not  know  if 
others  shared  the  satisfaction. 

The  two  Russian  ladies  are  from  Georgia  all  the 
way.  They  do  not  at  all  answer  to  the  description 
of  Georgian  slaves  however,  being  graceful  and 
refined,  and  only  good-looking  after  you  know  them 
a  bit. 


120        LETTERS  OF  STP:VENS0N      [.874 

Please  remember  me  very  kindly  to  the  Jenkins, 
and  thank  them  for  having  asked  about  me.  Tell 
Mrs.  J.  that  I  am  engaged  perfecting  myself  in 
the  *  Gallic  idiom,'  in  order  to  be  a  worthier  Vatel 
for  the  future.  Monsieur  Folletc,  our  host,  is  a 
Vatel  by  the  way.  He  cooks  himself,  and  is  not 
insensible  to  flattery  on  the  score  of  his  table.  I  be- 
gan, of  course,  to  complain  of  the  wine  (part  of  the 
the  routine  of  life  at  Mcntonc);  I  told  him  that 
where  one  found  a  kitchen  so  exquisite,  one  aston- 
ished oneself  that  the  wine  was  not  up  to  the  same 
form.  '  Et  voila  precisement  mon  cote  faible,  mon- 
sieur,' he  replied,  with  an  indescribable  amplitude 
of  gesture.  'Que  voulez-vous?  Moi,  je  suis  cuisi- 
nier!'  It  was  as  though  Shakespeare,  called  to  ac- 
count for  some  such  peccadillo  as  the  Bohemain 
seaport,  should  answer  magnificently  that  he  was  a 
poet.  So  Follete  lives  in  a  golden  zone  of  a  certain 
sort — a  golden,  or  rather  torrid  zone,  whence  he 
issues  twice  daily  purple  as  to  his  face — and  all  these 
clouds  and  vapours  and  ephemeral  winds  pass  far 
below  him  and  disturb  him  not. 

He  has  another  hobby  however — his  garden,  round 
which  it  is  his  highest  pleasure  to  lead  the  unwilling 
guest.  Whenever  he  is  not  in  the  kitchen,  he  is 
hanging  round  loose,  seeking  whom  he  may  show 
his  garden  to.  Much  of  my  time  is  passed  in  stu- 
diously avoiding  him,  and  I  have  brought  the  art  to 
a  very  extreme  pitch  of  perfection.  The  fox,  often 
hunted,  becomes  wary. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  121 


To  Mrs.  Sit  well 

[Menton],  Tuesday,  i^th  January  1874 

...  I  LOST  a  Philipine  to  little  Mary  Johnstone 
last  night;  so  to-day  I  sent  her  a  rubbishing  doll's 
toilet,  and  a  little  note  with  it,  with  some  verses  tell- 
ing how  happy  children  made  every  one  near  them 
happy  also,  and  advising  her  to  keep  the  lines,  and 
some  day,  when  she  was  'grown  a  stately  demoiselle,' 
it  would  make  her  'glad  to  know  she  gave  pleasure 
long  ago,'  all  in  a  very  lame  fashion,  with  just  a  note 
of  prose  at  the  end,  telling  her  to  mind  her  doll  and 
the  dog,  and  not  trouble  her  little  head  just  now 
to  understand  the  bad  verses;  for  some  time  when 
she  was  ill,  as  I  am  now,  they  would  be  plain  to  her 
and  make  her  happy.  She  has  just  been  here  to 
thank  me,  and  has  left  me  very  happy.  Children 
are  certainly  too  good  to  be  true. 

Yesterday  I  walked  too  far,  and  spent  all  tho  after- 
noon on  the  outside  of  my  bed;  and  went  finally  to 
rest  at  nine,  and  slept  nearly  twelve  hours  on  the 
stretch.  Bennet  (the  doctor),  when  told  of  it  this 
morning,  augured  well  for  my  recovery;  he  said 
youth  must  be  putting  in  strong;  of  course  I  ought 
not  to  have  slept  at  all.  As  it  was,  I  dreamed  hor- 
ridly; but  not  my  usual  dreams  of  social  miseries 
and  misunderstandings  and  all  sorts  of  crucifixions 
of  the  spirit;  but  of  good,  cheery,  physical  things — 
of  long  successions  of  vaulted,  dimly  lit  cellars  full 
of  black  water,  in  which  I  went  swimming  among 
toads  and  unutterable,  cold,  blind  fishes.  Now  and 
then  these  cellars  opened  up  into  sort  of  domed 
music-hall  places,  where  one  could  land  for  a  little 


122        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [1874 

on  the  slope  of  the  orchestra,  but  a  sort  of  horror 
prevented  one  from  staying  long,  and  made  one 
plunge  back  again  into  the  dead  waters.  Then  my 
dream  changed,  and  I  was  a  sort  of  Siamese  pirate, 
on  a  very  high  deck  with  several  others.  The  ship 
was  almost  captured,  and  we  were  fighting  desper- 
ately. The  hideous  engines  we  used  and  the  per- 
fectly incredil^le  carnage  that  we  effected  by  means 
of  them  kept  me  cheer}',  as  you  may  imagine;  espe- 
cially as  I  felt  all  the  time  my  sympathy  with  the 
boarders,  and  knew  that  I  was  only  a  prisoner  with 
these  horrid  Malays.  Then  I  saw  a  signal  being 
given,  and  knew  they  were  going  to  blow  up  the 
ship.  I  leaped  right  ofT,  and  heard  my  captors 
splash  in  the  water  after  me  as  thick  as  pebbles  when 
a  bit  of  river  bank  has  given  way  beneath  the  foct. 
I  never  heard  the  ship  blow  up;  but  I  spent  the  rest 
of  the  night  swimming  about  some  piles  with  the 
whole  sea  full  of  Malays,  searching  for  me  with 
knives  in  their  mouths.  They  could  swim  any  dis- 
tance under  water,  and  every  now  and  again,  just  as 
I  was  beginning  to  reckon  myself  safe,  a  cold  hand 
would  be  laid  on  my  ankle — ugh! 

However,  my  long  sleep,  troubled  as  it  was,  put 
me  all  right  again,  and  I  was  able  to  work  acceptably 
this  morning  and  be  very  jolly  all  day.  This  evening 
I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  talk  with  both  the  Russian 
ladies;  they  talked  very  nicely,  and  are  bright,  likable 
women  both.     They  come  from  Georgia. 

Wednesday,  10.30. — We  have  all  been  to  tea  to- 
night at  the  Russians'  villa.  Tea  was  made  out  of 
a  samovar,  which  is  something  like  a  small  steam 
engine,  and  whose   principal  advantage   is   that  it 


AET.  34]  MRS.  SITWELL  123 

burns  the  fingers  of  all  who  lay  their  profane  touch 
upon  it.  After  tea  Madame  Z.  played  Russian  airs, 
very  plaintive  and  pretty;  so  the  evening  was  Mus- 
covite from  beginning  to  end.  Madame  G.'s  daughter 
danced  a  tarantella,  which  was  very  pretty. 

Whenever  Nelitchka  cries — and  she  never  cries 
except  from  pain — all  that  one  has  to  do  is  to  start 
'Malbrook  s'en  va-t-en  guerre.'  She  cannot  resist 
the  attraction;  she  is  drawn  through  her  sobs  into 
the  air;  and  in  a  moment  there  is  Nellie  singing, 
with  the  glad  look  that  comes  into  her  face  always 
when  she  sings,  and  all  the  tears  and  pain  forgotten. 

It  is  wonderful,  before  I  shut  this  up,  how  that  child 
remains  ever  interesting  to  me.  Nothing  can  stale  her 
infinite  variety;  and  yet  it  is  not  very  various.  You 
see  her  thinking  what  she  is  to  do  or  to  say  next, 
with  a  funny  grave  air  of  reserve,  and  then  the  face 
breaks  up  into  a  smile,  and  it  is  probably  'Berec- 
chino!'  said  with  that  sudden  little  jump  of  the  voice 
that  one  knows  in  children,  as  the  escape  of  a  jack- 
in-the-box,  and,  somehow,  I  am  quite  happy  after 

^^^''  R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  January  1874],  Wednesday 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — It  is  Still  SO  cold,  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  miserable  the  weather  is.  I  have  begun 
my  'Walt  Whitman'  again  seriously.  Many  winds 
have  blown  since  I  last  laid  it  down,  when  sickness 
took  me  in  Edinburgh.  It  seems  almost  like  an 
ill-considered  jest  to  take  up  these  old  sentences, 
written  by  so  different  a  person  under  circumstances 


124        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.H74 

so  dilTcrent,  and  try  to  string  them  together  and 
organize  them  into  something  anyway  whole  and 
comely;  it  is  like  continuing  another  man's  book. 
Almost  every  word  is  a  little  out  of  tune  to  me  now 
but  I  shall  pull  it  through  for  all  that  and  make 
something  that  will  interest  you  yet  on  this  subject 
that  I  had  proposed  to  myself  and  partly  planned 
already,  before  I  left  for  Cockfield  last  July. 

I  am  very  anxious  to  hear  how  you  are.  My  own 
health  is  quite  very  good;  I  am  a  healthy  octoge- 
narian; very  old,  I  thank  you  and  of  course  not  so 
active  as  a  young  man,  but  hale  withal;  a  lusty 
December.     This  is  so;  such  is  R.  L.  S. 

I  am  a  little  bothered  about  Bob,  a  little  afraid 
that  he  is  living  too  poorly.  The  fellow  he  chums 
with  spends  only  two  francs  a  day  on  food,  with  a 
little  excess  every  day  or  two  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  and  though  Bob  is  not  so  austere  I  am 
afraid  he  draws  it  rather  too  fine  himself. 

Friday. — We  have  all  got  our  photographs;  it  is 
pretty  fair,  they  say,  of  me  and  as  they  are  particular 
in  the  matter  of  photographs,  and  besides  partial 
judges  I  suppose  I  may  take  that  for  proven.  Of 
Nellie  there  is  one  quite  adorable.  The  weather  is 
still  cold.  My  'Walt  Whitman'  at  last  looks  really 
well:  I  think  it  is  going  to  get  into  shape  in  spite 
of  the  long  gestation. 

Sunday. — Still  cold  and  grey,  and  a  high  imperious 
wind  off  the  sea.  I  see  nothing  particularly  coideur 
de  rose  this  morning:  but  I  am  trying  to  be  faithful 
to  my  creed  and  hope.  O  yes,  one  can  do  something 
to  make  things  happier  and  better;    and  to  give  a 


AET.  24]  MRS.    SIT  WELL  125 

good  example  before  men  and  show  them  how  good- 
ness and  fortitude  and  faith  remain  undiminished 
after  they  have  been  stripped  bare  of  all  that  is 
formal  and  outside.  We  must  do  that;  you  have 
done  it  already;  and  I  shall  follow  and  shall  make 
a  worthy  life,  and  you  must  live  to  approve  of  me. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  following  are  two  different  impressions  of  the  Mediterranean, 
dated  on  two  different  Mondays  in  January: — 

Yes,  I  am  much  better;  very  much  better  I  think 
I  may  say.  Although  it  is  funny  how  I  have  ceased 
to  be  able  to  write  with  the  improvement  of  my  health. 
Do  you  notice  how  for  some  time  back  you  have  had 
no  descriptions  of  anything?  The  reason  is  that  I 
can't  describe  anything.  No  words  come  to  me  when 
I  see  a  thing.  I  want  awfully  to  tell  you  to-day 
about  a  little  ' piece^  of  green  sea,  and  gulls,  and 
clouded  sky  with  the  usual  golden  mountain-breaks 
to  the  southward.  It  was  wonderful,  the  sea  near 
at  hand  was  living  emerald;  the  white  breasts  and 
wings  of  the  gulls  as  they  circled  above — high  above 
even — were  dyed  bright  green  by  the  reflection. 
And  if  you  could  only  have  seen  or  if  any  right  word 
would  only  come  to  my  pen  to  tell  you  how  won- 
derfully these  illuminated  birds  floated  hither  and 
thither  under  the  grey  purples  of  the  sky! 


To-day  has  been  windy  but  not  cold.  The  sea 
was  troubled  and  had  a  fine  fresh  saline  smell  like 
our  own  seas,  and  the  sight  of  the  breaking  waves, 


126        LETTERS  OF  SI  EVENSON      [.874 

and  above  all  the  spray  that  dro\e  now  and  again 
in  my  face,  carried  me  back  to  storms  that  I  have 
enjoyed,  O  how  much!  in  other  places.  Still  (as 
Madame  Zassetsky  justly  remarked)  there  is  some- 
thing irritating  in  a  stormy  sea  whose  waves  come 
always  to  the  same  spot  and  never  farther:  it  looks 
like  playing  at  passion:  it  reminds  one  of  the  loath- 
some sham  waves  in  a  stage  ocean. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Menlon,  January  1874] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  write  to  let  you  know  that  my 
cousin  may  possibly  come  to  Paris  before  you  leave; 
he  will  likely  look  you  up  to  hear  about  me,  etc.  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  him  before  you  see  him,  as  I 
am  tired  of  people  misjudging  him.  You  know  we 
now.  Well,  Bob  is  just  such  another  mutton,  only 
somewhat  farther  wandered.  He  has  all  the  same 
elements  of  character  that  I  have:  no  two  people 
were  ever  more  alike,  only  that  the  world  has  gone 
more  unfortunately  for  him  although  more  evenly. 
Besides  which,  he  is  really  a  gentleman,  and  an  ad- 
mirable true  friend,  which  is  not  a  common  article. 
I  write  this  as  a  letter  of  introduction  in  case  he 
should  catch  you  ere  you  leave. 

Monday. — No  letters  to-day.  Sacre  chien,  Dieu  de 
Dieu — and  I  have  written  w^th  exemplary  industry. 
But  I  am  hoping  that  no  news  is  good  news  and  shall 
continue  so  to  hope  until  all  is  blue. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


AET.  24]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  127 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

It  had  been  a  very  cold  Christmas  at  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo, 
and  Stevenson  had  no  adequate  overcoat,  so  it  was  agreed  that 
when  I  went  to  Paris  I  should  try  and  find  him  a  warm  cloak  or 
^^Tap.  I  amused  myself  looking  for  one  suited  to  his  taste  for  the 
picturesque  and  piratical  in  apparel,  and  found  one  in  the  style  of 
1830-40,  dark  blue  and  flowing,  and  fastening  with  a  snake  buckle. 

[Menton,  January  1874],  Friday 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Thank  you  very  much  for  your 
note.  This  morning  I  am  stupid  again;  can  do 
nothing  at  all;  am  no  good  'comme  plumitif.'  I 
think  it  must  be  the  cold  outside.  At  least  that 
would  explain  my  addled  head  and  intense  laziness. 

O  why  did  you  tell  me  about  that  cloak?  Why 
didn't  you  buy  it  ?  Isn't  it  in  Julius  Caesar  that  Pom- 
pey  blames — no  not  Pompey  but  a  friend  of  Pom- 
pey's — well,  Pompey's  friend,  I  mean  the  friend  of 
Pompey — blames  somebody  else  who  was  his  friend 
— that  is  who  was  the  friend  of  Pompey's  friend — 
because  he  (the  friend  of  Pompey's  friend)  had  not 
done  something  right  off,  but  had  come  and  asked 
him  (Pompey's  friend)  whether  he  (the  friend  of 
Pompey's  friend)  ought  to  do  it  or  no?  There  I 
fold  my  hands  with  some  complacency:  that's  a 
piece  of  very  good  narration.  I  am  getting  into 
good  form.  These  classical  instances  are  always 
distracting.  I  was  talking  of  the  cloak.  It's  awfully 
dear.  Are  there  no  cheap  and  nasty  imitations? 
Think  of  that— if,  however,  it  were  the  opinion 
(ahem)  of  competent  persons  that  the  great  cost  of 
the  mande  in  question  was  no  more  than  propor- 
tionate to  its  durabihty;   if  it  were  to  be  a  joy  for 


128        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [1874 

ever;  if  it  would  cover  my  declining  years  and  sur- 
vive mc  in  anything  like  integrity  for  the  comfort 
of  my  executors;  if — I  have  the  word — if  the  price 
indicates  (as  it  seems)  the  quality  of  perdurability  in 
the  fabric;  if,  in  fact,  it  would  not  be  extravagant, 
but  only  the  leanest  economy  to  lay  out  ;(]5  15  in  a 
single  mantle  without  seam  and  without  price,  and 
if — and  if — it  really  fastens  with  an  agrafe — I  would 
BUY  it.  But  not  unless.  If  not  a  cheap  imitation 
would  be  the  move. — Ever  yours, 

K..  L.  b. 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

The  following  is  in  answer  to  a  set  of  numbered  questions,  of 
which  the  first  three  are  of  no  general  interest. 

[Mentoti],  Monday,  January  igth,  1874 

Answers  to  a  series  of  questions. 


4.  Nelitchka,  or  Nelitska,  as  you  know  already  by 
this  time,  is  my  adorable  kid's  name.  Her  laugh 
does  more  good  to  one's  health  than  a  month  at 
the  seaside:  as  she  said  to-day  herself,  when  asked 
whether  she  was  a  boy  or  a  girl,  after  having  denied 
both  with  gravity,  she  is  an  angel. 

5.  O  no,  her  brain  is  not  in  a  chaos;  it  is  only 
the  brains  of  those  who  hear  her.  It  is  all  plain  sail- 
ing for  her.  She  wishes  to  refuse  or  deny  anything, 
and  there  is  the  English  'No  fank  you'  ready  to  her 
hand;  she  wishes  to  admire  anything,  and  there  is 
the  German  'schon';   she  wishes  to  sew  (which  she 


AET.  .4]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON     129 

does  with  admirable  seriousness  and  clumsiness),  and 
there  is  the  French  'coudre';  she  wishes  to  say  she 
is  ill,  and  there  is  the  Russian  'bulla';  she  wishes 
to  be  down  on  any  one,  and  there  is  the  Italian 
'Berecchino';  she  wishes  to  play  at  a  railway  train, 
and  there  is  her  own  original  word  '  Collie'  (say  the  o 
with  a  sort  of  Gaelic  twirl).  And  all  these  words  are 
equally  good. 

7.  I  am  called  M.  Stevenson  by  everybody  except 
Nelitchka,  who  calls  me  M.  Berecchino. 

8.  The  weather  to-day  is  no  end:  as  bright  and  as 
warm  as  ever.  I  have  been  out  on  the  beach  all 
afternoon  with  the  Russians.  Madame  Garschine  has 
been  reading  Russian  to  me;  and  I  cannot  tell  prose 
from  verse  in  that  delectable  tongue,  which  is  a  pity. 
Johnson  came  out  to  tell  us  that  Corsica  was  visible, 
and  there  it  was  over  a  white,  svveltering  sea,  just  a 
litde  darker  than  the  pallid  blue  of  the  sky,  and 
when  one  looked  at  it  closely,  breaking  up  into  sun- 
brightened  peaks. 

I  may  mention  that  Robinet  has  never  heard  an 
Englishman  with  so  little  accent  as  I  have — ahem — 
ahem— eh  ?— What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  I  don't  sup- 
pose I  have  said  five  sentences  in  English  to-day;  all 
French;  all  bad  French,  alas! 

I  am  thought  to  be  looking  better.  Madame  Zas- 
setsky  said  I  was  all  green  when  I  came  here  first, 
but  that  I  am  all  right  in  colour  now,  and  she  thinks 
fatter.  I  am  very  partial  to  the  Russians;  I  believe 
they  are  rather  partial  to  me.  I  am  supposed  to  be 
an  esprit  observateur!  A  mon  age,  c'est  etonnanl 
comme  je  stUs  observateur! 


ijo        LETTKRS   OF  STEVENSON      L.S71 

The  second  volume  of  Clement  Marot  has  come. 
Where  and  O  where  is  the  first?— Ever  your  afTec- 

^'^"^^^  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  Bottle  here  mentioned  is  a  ston'  that  had  been  some  time  in 
hand  called  The  Curate  of  Anstruther's  Bottle;  afterwards  aban- 
doned like  so  many  early  attempts  of  the  same  kind. 

[Menton,  January  1874J 

MY  DEAR  s.  c.,— I  suppose  this  will  be  my  last  note 
then.     I  think  you  will  find  everything  very  jolly  here, 
I  am  very  jolly  myself.     I  worked  six  hours  to-day.    I 
am  occupied  in  transcribing   The  Bottle,  which   is 
pleasant  work  to  me;    I  find  much  in  it  that  I  still 
think  excellent  and  much  that  I  am  doubtful  about; 
my  convention  is  so  terribly  difficult  that  I  have  to 
put  out  much  that  pleases  me,  and  much  that  I  still 
preserve  I  only  preserve  with  misgiving.     I  wonder 
if  my  convention  is  not  a  little  too  hard  and  too 
much    in    the    style   of    those   decadent   curiosities, 
poems  without  the  letter  E,  poems  going  with  the 
alphabet  and  the  like.     And  yet  the  idea,  if  rightly 
understood  and  treated  as  a  convention  always  and 
not  as  an  abstract  principle,  should  not  so  much 
hamper  one  as  it  seems  to  do.     The  idea  is  not,  of 
course,  to  put  in  nothing  but  what  would  naturally 
have  been  noted  and  remembered  and  handed  down, 
but  not  to  put  in  anything  that  would  make  a  person 
stop  and  say— how  could  this  be  known?     Without 
doubt  it  has  the  advantage  of  making  one  rely  on  the 
essential  interest  of  a  situation  and  not  cocker  up  and 


AET.  24]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  131 

validify  feeble  intrigue  with  incidental  fine  writing 
and  scenery,  and  pyrotechnic  exhibitions  of  inappro- 
priate cleverness  and  sensibility.  I  remember  Bob 
once  saying  to  me  that  the  quadrangle  of  Edinburgh 
University  was  a  good  thing  and  our  having  a  talk 
as  to  how  it  could  be  employed  in  different  arts.  I 
then  stated  that  the  different  doors  and  staircases 
ought  to  be  brought  before  a  reader  of  a  story  not 
by  mere  recapitulation  but  by  the  use  of  them,  by 
the  descent  of  different  people  one  after  another  by 
each  of  them.  And  that  the  grand  feature  of  shadow 
and  the  hght  of  the  one  lamp  in  the  corner  should 
also  be  introduced  only  as  they  enabled  people  in  the 
story  to  see  one  another  or  prevented  them.  And 
finally  that  whatever  could  not  thus  be  worked  into 
the  evolution  of  the  action  had  no  right  to  be  com- 
memorated at  all.  After  all,  it  is  a  story  you  are 
telling;  not  a  place  you  are  to  describe;  and  every- 
thing that  does  not  attach  itself  to  the  story  is  out 
of  place. 

This  is  a  lecture  not  a  letter,  and  it  seems  rather 
like  sending  coals  to  Newcastle  to  write  a  lecture  to 
a  subsidised  professor.  I  hope  you  have  seen  Bob 
by  this  time.  I  know  he  is  anxious  to  meet  you  and 
I  am  in  great  anxiety  to  know  what  you  think  of  his 
prospects — frankly,  of  course:  as  for  his  person,  I 
don't  care  a  damn  what  you  think  of  it:  I  am  case- 
hardened  in  that  matter. 

I  wrote  a  French  note  to  Madame  Zassetsky  the 
other  day,  and  there  were  no  errors  in  it.  The  com- 
plete Gaul,  as  you  may  see. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


132        LETTERS  OE  STEVENSON      [.S74 
To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menion,  January  1874] 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  had  a  quarrel  with  the  Ameri- 
can on  pohtics.  It  is  odd  how  it  irritates  you  to  hear 
certain  political  statements  made.  He  was  excited, 
and  he  began  suddenly  to  abuse  our  conduct  to 
America.  I,  of  course,  admitted  right  and  left  that 
we  had  behaved  disgracefully  (as  we  had);  until 
somehow  I  got  tired  of  turning  alternate  cheeks  and 
getting  duly  buffeted;  and  when  he  said  that  the 
Alabama  money  had  not  wiped  out  the  injury,  I 
suggested,  in  language  (I  remember)  of  admirable 
directness  and  force,  that  it  was  a  pity  they  had  taken 
the  money  in  that  case.  He  lost  his  temper  at  once, 
and  cried  out  that  his  dearest  wish  was  a  war  with 
England;  whereupon  I  also  lost  my  temper,  and, 
thundering  at  the  pitch  of  my  voice,  I  left  him  and 
went  away  by  myself  to  another  part  of  the  garden. 
A  very  tender  reconciliation  took  place,  and  I  think 
there  will  come  no  more  harm  out  of  it.  We  are 
both  of  us  nervous  people,  and  he  had  had  a  very 
long  walk  and  a  good  deal  of  beer  at  dinner:  that 
explains  the  scene  a  little.  But  I  regret  having  em- 
ployed so  much  of  the  voice  with  which  I  have  been 
endowed,  as  I  fear  every  person  in  the  hotel  was 
taken  into  confidence  as  to  my  sentiments,  just  at 
the  very  juncture  when  neither  the  sentiments  nor 
(perhaps)  the  language  had  been  sufficiently  con- 
sidered. 

Friday. — You  have  not  yet  heard  of  my  book? — 
Four  Great  Scotsmen — John    Knox,   David   Hume, 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  133 

Robert  Burns,  Walter  Scott.  These,  their  lives,  their 
work,  the  social  media  in  which  they  lived  and 
worked,  with,  if  I  can  so  make  it,  the  strong  cur- 
rent of  the  race  making  itself  felt  underneath  and 
throughout — this  is  my  idea.  You  must  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  it.  The  Knox  will  really  be  new 
matter,  as  his  life  hitherto  has  been  disgracefully 
written,  and  the  events  are  romantic  and  rapid;  the 
character  very  strong,  salient,  and  worthy;  much 
interest  as  to  the  future  of  Scotland,  and  as  to 
that  part  of  him  which  was  truly  modern  under  his 
Hebrew  disguise.  Hume,  of  course,  the  urbane, 
cheerful,  gentlemanly,  letter-writing  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, full  of  attraction,  and  much  that  I  don't  yet 
know  as  to  his  work.  Burns,  the  sentimental  side 
that  there  is  in  most  Scotsmen,  his  poor  troubled 
existence,  how  far  his  poems  were  his  personally,  and 
how  far  national,  the  question  of  the  framework  of 
society  in  Scotland,  and  its  fatal  effect  upon  the 
finest  natures.  Scott  again,  the  ever  delightful  man, 
sane,  courageous,  admirable;  the  birth  of  Romance, 
in  a  dawn  that  was  a  sunset;  snobbery,  conservatism, 
the  wrong  thread  in  History,  and  notably  in  that  of 
his  own  land.  Voila,  madame,  le  menu.  Comment 
le  trouvez-vous?  II  y  a  de  la  bonne  viande,  si  on  par- 
vient  CL  la  cuire  convenahlemenU 

R.  L.  S. 


134        LK'l  IhRS   OF   S'lLVKNSON      [-.874 


To  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menlon],  Monday,  January  26th,  1874 

MY  DEAR  FATHER, — Hch!  Ilch!  busincss  letter 
finished.  Receipt  acknowled<^cd  without  much  ado, 
and  I  think  with  a  certain  commercial  decision  and 
brevity.     The  signature  is  good  but  not  original. 

I  should  rather  think  I  had  lost  my  heart  to  tl.c 
wee  princess.  Her  mother  demanded  the  other 
day  ^A  quand  les  noces  ?^  which  Mrs.  Stevenson  will 
translate  for  you  in  case  you  don't  see  it  yourself, 

I  had  a  political  quarrel  last  night  with  the  Ameri- 
can; it  was  a  real  quarrel  for  about  two  minutes; 
we  relieved  our  feelings  and  separated;  but  a 
mutual  feeling  of  shame  led  us  to  a  most  moving 
reconciliation,  in  which  the  American  vowed  he 
would  shed  his  best  blood  for  England.  In  looking 
back  upon  the  interview,  I  feel  that  I  have  learned 
something;  I  scarcely  appreciated  how  badly  Eng- 
land had  behaved,  and  how  well  she  deserves  the 
hatred  the  Americans  bear  her.  It  would  have  made 
you  laugh  if  you  could  have  been  present  and  seen 
your  unpatriotic  son  thundering  anathemas  in  the 
moonlight  against  all  those  that  were  not  the  friend 
of  England.  Johnson  being  nearly  as  nervous  as  I, 
we  were  both  very  ill  after  it,  which  added  a  further 
pathos  to  the  reconciliation. 

There  is  no  good  in  sending  this  ofT  to-day,  as  I 
have  sent  another  letter  this  morning  already. 

O,  a  remark  of  the  Princess's  amused  me  the  other 
day.     Somebody  wanted  to  give  Nelitchka  garlic  as  a 


A£T.  24]  MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON      135 

medicine.  *  Quoi  ?  line  petite  amour  comme  ga,  qii'on 
ne  pourrait  pas  haiser  ?  II  n^y  a  pas  de  sens  en  celal ' 
I  am  reading  a  lot  of  French  histories  just  now, 
and  the  spelHng  keeps  one  in  a  good  humour  all  day 
long — I  mean  the  speHing  of  English  names. — Your 
affectionate  son,  ^^^^^^  ^ouis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton,  January  29,  1874],  Thursday 

Marot  vol.  i  arrived.  The  post  has  been  at  its  old 
games.  A  letter  of  the  31st  and  one  of  the  2nd 
arrive  at  the  same  moment. 

I  have  had  a  great  pleasure.  Mrs.  Andrews  had 
a  book  of  Scotch  airs,  which  I  brought  over  here, 
and  set  Madame  Z.  to  work  upon  them.  They  are 
so  like  Russian  airs  that  they  cannot  contain 
their  astonishment.  I  was  quite  out  of  my  mind 
with  delight.  'The  Flowers  of  the  Forest'— ' Auld 
Lang  Syne' — '  Scots  wha  hae' — '  Wandering  Willie ' — 
'Jock  o'  Hazeldean' — 'My  Boy  Tammie,'  which  my 
father  whistles  so  often — I  had  no  conception  how 
much  I  loved  them.  The  air  which  pleased  Madame 
Zassetsky  the  most  was  'Hey,  Johnnie  Cope,  are  ye 
waukin  yet?'  It  is  certainly  no  end.  And  I  was 
so  proud  that  they  were  appreciated.  No  triumph 
of  my  own,  I  am  sure,  could  ever  give  me  such  vain- 
glorious satisfaction.  You  remember,  perhaps,  how 
conceited  I  was  to  find  '  Auld  Lang  Syne '  popular  in 
its  German  dress;  but  even  that  was  nothing  to  the 
pleasure  I  had  yesterday  at  the  success  of  our  dear 
airs. 


136        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [1874 

The  edition  is  called  'The  Songs  of  Scotland 
without  Words  for  the  Pianoforte,'  edited  by  J.  T. 
Surrenne,  published  by  Wood  in  George  Street.  As 
these  people  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  I  wish  you 
would  get  a  copy  of  this  and  send  it  out.  If  that 
should  be  too  dear,  or  anything,  Mr.  Mowbray  would 
be  able  to  tell  you  what  is  the  best  substitute,  would 
he  not?  This  I  really  would  like  you  to  do,  as 
Madame  proposes  to  hire  a  copyist  to  copy  those 
she  likes,  and  so  it  is  evident  she  wants  them. — Ever 
your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Thomas  Stevenson 

With  reference  to  the  political  allusions  in  the  following  it  will  be 
remembered  that  this  was  the  date  of  Mr.  (iladstone's  dissolution, 
followed  by  his  defeat  at  the  polls  notwithstanding  his  declared 
intention  of  abolishing  the  income-tax. 

[Menton\  February  ist,  1874 

I  AM  so  sorry  to  hear  of  poor  Mr.  M.'s  death.  He 
was  really  so  amiable  and  kind  that  no  one  could 
help  liking  him,  and  carrying  away  a  pleasant  recol- 
lection of  his  simple,  happy  ways.  I  hope  you  will 
communicate  to  all  the  family  how  much  I  feel  with 
them. 

Madame  Zassetsky  is  Nelitchka's  mamma.  They 
have  both  husbands,  and  they  are  in  Russia,  and  the 
ladies  are  both  here  for  their  health.  They  make  it 
very  pleasant  for  me  here.  To-day  we  all  went  a 
drive  to  the  Cap  Martin,  and  the  Cap  was  adorable 
in  the  splendid  sunshine. 


AEr.  24]        THOMAS   STEVENSON  137 

I  read  J.  H.  A.  Macdonald's  speech  with  interest; 
his  sentiments  are  quite  good,  I  think.     I  would 
support  him  against  M'Laren  at  once.     What  has 
disgusted  me  most  as  yet  about  this  election  is  the 
detestable  proposal  to  do  away  with  the  income  tax. 
Is  there  no  shame  about  the  easy  classes?     Will 
those  who  have  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  thou- 
sandths of  the  advantage  of  our  society,  never  con- 
sent to  pay  a  single  tax  unless  it  is  to  be  paid  also 
by  those  who  have  to  bear  the  burthen  and  heat  of 
the  day,  with  almost  none  of  the  reward  ?    And  the 
selfishness  here  is  detestable,  because  it  is  so  deliber- 
ate.    A  man  may  not  feel  poverty  very  keenly  and 
may  Hve  a  quiet  self-pleasing  life  in  pure  thoughdess- 
ness;  but  it  is  quite  another  matter  when  he  knows 
thoroughly  what  the  issues  are,  and  yet  wails  pitiably 
because  he  is  asked  to  pay  a  little  more,  even  if  it 
does   fall   hardly   sometimes,    than   those   who   get 
almost  none  of  the  benefit.     It  is  like  the  healthy 
child  crying  because  they  do  not  give  him  a  goody, 
as  they  have  given  to  his  sick  brother  to  take  away 
the  taste  of  the  dose.     I  have  not  expressed  myself 
clearly;  but  for  all  that,  you  ought  to  understand,  I 
think. 

Friday,  February  6//1.— The  wine  has  arrived,  and 
a  dozen  of  it  has  been  transferred  to  me;  it  is  much 
better  than  Follete's  stuff.  We  had  a  masquerade 
last  night  at  the  Villa  Marina;  Nellie  in  a  httle  red 
satin  cap,  in  a  red  satin  suit  of  boy's  clothes,  with  a 
funny  httle  black  tail  that  stuck  out  behind  her,  and 
wagged  as  she  danced  about  the  room,  and  gave  her 
a  look  of  Puss  in  Boots;  Pella  as  a  contadina;  Mon- 


138        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.874 

sieur  Robinet  as  an  old  woman,  and  Mademoiselle 
as  an  old  lady  with  blue  spectacles. 

Yesterday  we  had  a  visit  from  one  of  whom  I  had 
often  heard  from  Mrs.  Sellar — Andrew  Lang.  He 
is  good-looking,  delicate,  Oxfordish,  etc. 

My  cloak  is  the  most  admirable  of  all  garments. 
For  warmth,  unequalled;  for  a  sort  of  pensive, 
Roman  stateliness,  sometimes  warming  into  Ro- 
mantic guitarism,  it  is  simply  without  concurrent;  it 
starts  alone.  If  you  could  see  me  in  my  cloak,  it 
would  impress  you.  I  am  hugely  better,  I  think:  I 
stood  the  cold  these  last  few  days  without  trouble, 
instead  of  taking  to  bed,  as  I  did  at  Monte  Carlo. 
I  hope  you  are  going  to  send  the  Scotch  music. 

I  am  stupid  at  letter- writing  again;  I  don't  know 
why.  I  hope  it  may  not  be  permanent;  in  the  mean- 
time, you  must  take  what  you  can  get  and  be  hope- 
ful. The  Russian  ladies  are  as  kind  and  nice  as 
ever. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  February  6,  1874],  Friday 

Last  night  we  had  a  masquerade  at  the  Villa 
Marina.  Pella  was  dressed  as  a  contadina  and 
looked  beautiful;  and  Httle  Nellie,  in  red  satin  cap 
and  wonderful  red  satin  jacket  and  little  breeches  as 
of  a  nondescript  impossible  boy;  to  which  Madame 
Garschine  had  slily  added  a  little  black  tail  that 
wagged  comically  behind  her  as  she  danced  about 
the  room,  and  got  deliciously  tilted  up  over  the  mid- 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  139 

die  bar  of  the  back  of  her  chair  as  she  sat  at  tea, 
with  an  irresistible  suggestion  of  Puss  in  Boots — 
well,  Nellie  thus  masqueraded  (to  get  back  to  my 
sentence  again)  was  all  that  I  could  have  imagined. 
She  held  herself  so  straight  and  stalwart,  and  had 
such  an  infinitesimal  dignity  of  carriage;  and 
then  her  big  baby  face,  already  quite  definitely 
marked  with  her  sex,  came  in  so  funnily  atop  that 
she  got  clear  away  from  all  my  power  of  similes 
and  resembled  nothing  in  the  world  but  Nellie  in 
masquerade.  Then  there  was  Robinet  in  a  white 
nightgown,  old  woman's  cap  {mutch,  in  my  vernacu- 
lar), snuff-box  and  crutch  doubled  up  and  yet  leap- 
ing and  gyrating  about  the  floor  with  incredible 
agility;  and  lastly.  Mademoiselle  in  a  sort  of  elderly 
walking-dress  and  with  blue  spectacles.  And  all  this 
incongruous  impossible  world  went  tumbling  and 
dancing  and  going  hand  in  hand,  in  flying  circles  to 
the  music;  until  it  was  enough  to  make  one  forget 
one  was  in  this  wicked  world,  with  Conservative 
majorities  and  Presidents  MacMahon  and  all  other 
abominations  about  one. 

Also  last  night  will  be  memorable  to  me  for  an- 
other reason,  Madame  Zassetsky  having  given  me 
a  light  as  to  my  own  intellect.  They  were  talking 
about  things  in  history  remaining  in  their  minds 
because  they  had  assisted  them  to  generalisations. 
And  I  began  to  explain  how  things  remained  in  my 
mind  yet  more  vividly  for  no  reason  at  all.  She  got 
interested  and  made  me  give  her  several  examples; 
then  she  said,  with  her  little  falsetto  of  discovery, 
'Mais  c'est  que  vous  etes  tout  simplement  enfant!' 


140        LETTERS   OE   STEVENSON      [1874 

This  7nol  T  have  reflected  on  at  leisure  and  there  is 
some  truth  in  it.  Lon<?  may  I  be  so.  Yesterday 
too  I  finished  Ordered  South  and  at  last  had  some 
pleasure  and  contentment  with  it.  S.  C.  has  sent 
it  off  to  Macmillan's  this  morning  and  I  hope  it 
may  be  accepted;  I  don't  care  whether  it  is  or  no 
except  for  the  all-important  lucre;  the  end  of  it  is 
good,  whether  the  able-editor  sees  it  or  no. — Ever 
your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

{\IctUon\  February  22nd,  1874 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  am  glad  to  hcar  you  are 
better  again:  nobody  can  expect  to  be  quite  well  in 
February,  that  is  the  only  consolation  I  can  offer 
you. 

Madame  Garschine  is  ill,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  and 
was  confined  to  bed  all  yesterday,  which  made  a  great 
difference  to  our  little  society,  A  propos  of  which, 
what  keeps  me  here  is  just  precisely  the  said  society. 
These  people  are  so  nice  and  kind  and  intelligent, 
and  then  as  I  shall  never  see  them  any  more  I  have 
a  disagreeable  feeling  about  making  the  move.  With 
ordinary  people  in  England,  you  have  more  or  less 
chance  of  re-encountering  one  another;  at  least  you 
may  see  their  death  in  the  papers;  but  with  these 
people,  they  die  for  me  and  I  die  for  them  when  we 
separate. 

Andrew  Lang,  O  you  of  little  comprehension, 
called  on  Colvin. 


AET.  24]  MRS.  THOMAS   STEVENSON     141 

You  had  not  told  me  before  about  the  fatuous 
person  who  thought  Roads  Hke  Ruskin — surely  the 
vaguest  of  contemporaneous  humanity.  Again  my 
letter  writing  is  of  an  enfeebled  sort. — Ever  your 
affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton],  March  ist,  1874 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — The  weather  is  again  beauti- 
ful, soft,  warm,  cloudy  and  soft  again,  in  provincial 
sense.  Very  interesting,  I  find  Robertson;  and  Du- 
gald  Stewart's  life  of  him  a  source  of  unquenchable 
laughter.  Dugald  Stewart  is  not  much  better  than 
McCrie,  and  puts  me  much  in  mind  of  him.  By 
the  way,  I  want  my  father  to  find  out  whether  any 
more  of  Knox's  Works  was  ever  issued  than  the  five 
volumes,  as  I  have  them.  There  are  some  letters 
that  I  am  very  anxious  to  see,  not  printed  in  any  of 
the  five,  and  perhaps  still  in  MS. 

I  suppose  you  are  now  home  again  in  Auld  Reekie: 
that  abode  of  bhss  does  not  much  attract  me  yet  a  bit. 

Colvin  leaves  at  the  end  of  this  week,  I  fancy. 

How  badly  yours  sincerely  writes.  O!  Madame 
Zassetsky  has  a  theory  that  Dumbarton  Drums  is  an 
epitome  of  my  character  and  talents.  She  plays  it, 
and  goes  into  ecstasies  over  it,  taking  everybody  to 
witness  that  each  note,  as  she  plays  it,  is  the  moral 
of  Berecchino.  Berecchino  is  my  stereotype  name  in 
the  world  now.  I  am  announced  as  M.  Berecchino; 
a  German  hand-maiden  came  to  the  hotel,  the  other 


142        LETTERS   OE   S  lEVENSON      [.874 

ni^ht,  asking  for  M.  Berecchino;  said  hand-maiden 
supposing  in  good  faith  that  sich  was  my  name. 

Your  letter  come.  O,  I  am  all  right  now  about 
the  parting,  because  it  will  not  be  death,  as  we  are 
to  write.  Of  course  the  correspondence  will  drop 
off:  but  that's  no  odds,  it  breaks  the  back  of  the 
trouble. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[^fe7lto^t],  Monday,  March  r)lh,  1874 

We  have  all  been  getting  photographed  and  the 
proofs  are  to  be  seen  to-day.  How  they  will  look  I 
know  not.  Madame  Zassetsky  arranged  me  for 
mine,  and  then  said  to  the  photographer:  'Cesl 
mon  fils.  II  vient  d' avoir  dix-tieiif  ans.  II  est  lout 
fier  de  sa  moustache.  Tdchez  de  la  /aire  parailre,' 
and  then  bolted  leaving  me  solemnly  alone  with  the 
artist.  The  artist  was  quite  serious,  and  explained 
that  he  would  try  to  '/aire  ressorlir  ce  que  vent  Ma- 
dame la  Princesse'  to  the  best  of  his  ability;  he 
bowed  very  much  to  me,  after  this,  in  (|uality  of 
Prince  you  see.  I  bowed  in  return  and  handled  the 
flap  of  my  cloak  after  the  most  princely  fashion  I 
could  command. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menlon\  March  20,  1874 

I.  My  Cloak. — An  exception  occurs  to  me  to  the 
frugality  described  a  letter  (or  may  be  two)  ago:  my 


AET.  24]  MRS.   THOMAS   STEVENSON    143 

cloak;  it  would  certainly  have  been  possible  to  have 
got  something  less  expensive;  still  it  is  a  fine  thought 
for  absent  parents  that  their  son  possesses  simply 
THE  GREATEST  vestment  in  Mentone.  It  is  great 
in  size,  and  unspeakbly  great  in  design;  qua  rai- 
ment, it  has  not  its  equal. 

•  •*•••• 

III.  About  Spain. — Well,  I  don't  know  about  me 
and  Spain.  I  am  certainly  in  no  humour  and  in  no 
state  of  health  for  voyages  and  travels.  Towards 
the  end  of  May  (see  end),  up  to  which  time  I  seem 
to  see  my  plans,  I  might  be  up  to  it,  or  I  might  not; 
I  think  not  myself.  I  have  given  up  all  idea  of  going 
on  to  Italy,  though  it  seems  a  pity  when  one  is  so 
near;  and  Spain  seems  to  me  in  the  same  category. 
But  for  all  that,  it  need  not  interfere  with  your 
voyage  thither:  I  would  not  lose  the  chance,  if  I 
wanted. 

IV.  Money. — I  am  much  obliged.  That  makes 
P^i8o  now.  This  money  irks  me,  one  feels  it  more 
than  when  living  at  home.  However,  if  I  have 
health,  I  am  in  a  fair  way  to  make  a  bit  of  a  liveli- 
hood for  myself.  Now  please  don't  take  this  up 
wrong;  don't  suppose  I  am  thinking  of  the  trans- 
action between  you  and  me;  I  think  of  the  trans- 
action between  me  and  mankind.  I  think  of  all 
this  money  wasted  in  keeping  up  a  structure  that 
may  never  be  worth  it — all  this  good  money  sent 
after  bad.  I  shall  be  seriously  angry  if  you  take  me 
up  wrong. 

V.  Roads. — The  familiar  false  concord  is  not  cer- 
tainly a  form  of  colloquialism  that  I  should  feel  in- 


144        LETFRRS  OF  STFVENSON      [.874 

dined  to  encourage.  It  is  very  odd;  I  wrote  it  very 
carefully,  and  you  seem  to  have  read  it  very  care- 
fully, and  yet  none  of  us  found  it  out.  The  Deuce 
is  in  it. 

\'I.  Russian  Prince. — A  cousin  of  these  ladies  is 
come  to  stay  with  them — Prince  L<5on  Galitzin.  He 
is  the  image  of — whom? — guess  now — do  you  give 
it  up? — Hillhouse. 

MI.  Miscellaneous. — I  send  you  a  pikter  of  me 
in  the  cloak.  I  think  it  is  like  a  hunchback.  The 
moustache  is  clearly  visible  to  the  naked  eye — O 
diable!  what  do  I  hear  in  my  lug?  A  mosquito — 
the  first  of  the  season.     Bad  luck  to  him! 

Goodnicht  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a'.  I  am  going  to 
bed. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Note  to  III.— I  had  counted  on  being  back  at 
Embro'  by  the  last  week  or  so  of  May. 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

This  describes  another  member  of  the  Russian  party,  recently 
arrived  at  Mentone,  who  did  his  best,  very  nearly  with  success,  to 
persuade  Stevenson  to  join  him  in  the  study  of  law  for  some  terms 
under  the  celebrated  Professor  Jhering  at  Gottingen. 

[Menton,  March  28,  1874] 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — Beautiful  weather,  perfect 
weather;  sun,  pleasant  cooling  winds;  health  very 
good;  only  incapacity  to  write. 

The  only  new  cloud  on  my  horizon  (I  mean  this 
in  no  menacing  sense)  is  the  Prince.  I  have  philo- 
sophical and  artistic  discussions  with  the  Prince. 
He  is  capable  of  talking  for  two  hours  upon  end, 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  145 

developing  his  theory  of  everything  under  Heaven 
from  his  first  position,  which  is  that  there  is  no 
straight  Hne.     Doesn't  that  sound  Hke  a  game  of  my 
father's— I  beg  your  pardon,  you  haven't  read  it— 
I  don't  mean  my  father,  I  mean  Tristram  Shandy's. 
He  is  very  clever,  and  it  is  an  immense  joke  to  hear 
him  unrolling  all  the  problems  of  life— philosophy, 
science,  what  you  will— in  this  charmingly  cut-and- 
dry,  here-we-are-again  kind  of  manner.     He  is  bet- 
ter to  listen  to  than  to  argue  withal.     When  you 
differ  from  him,  he  lifts  up  his  voice  and  thunders; 
and  you  know  that  the  thunder  of  an  excited  foreigner 
often   miscarries.     One    stands   aghast,    marvelling 
how  such  a  colossus  of  a  man,  in  such  a  great  com- 
motion of  spirit,  can  open  his  mouth  so  much  and 
emit  such  a  still  small  voice  at  the  hinder  end  of  it 
all.     All  this  while  he  walks  about  the  room,  smokes 
cigarettes,   occupies  divers   chairs   for  divers  brief 
spaces,  and  casts  his  huge  arms  to  the  four  winds 
like  the  sails  of  a  mill.     He  is  a  most  sportive  Prince. 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  Apnl  1874],  Monday 

My  last  night  at  Mentone.  I  cannot  tell  how 
strange  and  sad  I  feel.  I  leave  behind  me  a  dear 
friend  whom  I  have  but  little  hope  of  seeing  again 
between  the  eyes. 

To-day,  I  hadn't  arranged  all  my  plans  till  five 
o'clock:  I  hired  a  poor  old  cabman,  whose  uncom- 
fortable vehicle  and  sorry  horse  made  everyone  de- 


146        LKT'IKRS   OF  STEVENSON      [.874 

spise  him,  and  set  off  to  get  money  and  say  farewells. 
It  was  a  dark  misty  evening;  the  mist  was  down 
over  all  the  hills;  the  peach-trees  in  beautiful  pink 
bloom.  Arranged  my  plans;  that  merits  a  word  by 
the  way  if  I  can  be  bothered.  I  have  half  arranged 
to  go  to  Gottingen  in  summer  to  a  course  of  lectures. 
Galitzin  is  responsible  for  this.  He  tells  me  the  pro- 
fessor is  to  law  what  Darwin  has  been  to  Natural 
History,  and  I  should  like  to  understand  Roman  Law 
and  a  knowledge  of  law  is  so  necessary  for  all  I  hope 
to  do. 

My  poor  old  cabman;  his  one  horse  made  me 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  too  late  for  dinner,  but  I 
had  not  the  heart  to  discharge  him  and  take  another. 
Poor  soul,  he  was  so  pleased  with  his  pourboire,  I 
have  made  Madame  Zassetsky  promise  to  employ 
him  often;  so  he  will  be  something  the  better  for 
me,  little  as  he  will  know  it. 

I  have  read  Ordered  South;  it  is  pretty  decent  I 
think,  but  poor,  stiff,  limping  stuff  at  best — not  half 
so  well  straightened  up  as  Roads.  However  the  stuff 
is  good. 

God  help  us  all,  this  is  a  rough  world:  address 
Hotel  St.  Romain,  rue  St.  Roch,  Paris.  I  draw  the 
line:   a  chapter  fmished. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

The  line. 

That  bit  of  childishness  has  made  me  laugh,  do 
you  blame  me? 


Ill 

STUDENT   BAYS— Concluded 
HOME  AGAIN— LITERATURE  AND  LAW 

MAY   1 8  74- JUNE   1875 

RETURNING  to  Edinburgh  by  way  of  Paris  in 
May  1874,  Stevenson  went  to  live  with  his 
parents  at  Swanston  and  Edinburgh  and  re- 
sumed his  reading  for  the  Bar.  Illness  and  absence 
had  done  their  work,  and  the  old  harmony  of  the 
home  was  henceforth  quite  re-established.  In  his 
spare  time  during  the  next  year  he  worked  hard 
at  his  chosen  art,  trying  his  hand  at  essays,  short 
stories,  criticisms,  and  prose  poems.  In  all  this 
experimental  writing  he  had  neither  the  aims  nor 
the  facility  of  the  journalist,  but  strove  always  after 
the  higher  qualities  of  literature,  and  was  never 
satisfied  with  what  he  had  done.  To  find  for  all 
he  had  to  say  words  of  vital  aptness  and  animation — 
to  communicate  as  much  as  possible  of  what  he 
has  somewhere  called  'the  incommunicable  thrill  of 
things' — was  from  the  first  his  endeavour  in  litera- 
ture, nay  more,  it  was  the  main  passion  of  his  life: 
and  the  instrument  that  should  serve  his  purpose 
could  not  be  forged  in  haste.     Neither  was  it  easy 

147 


14??       LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON 

for  this  past  master  of  the  random,  the  unexpected, 
the  brilliantly  back-foremost  and  topsy-turvy  in  talk, 
to  learn  in  writing  the  habit  of  orderly  arrangement 
and  organic  sequence  which  even  the  lightest  forms 
of  literature  cannot  lack. 

In  the  course  of  this  summer  Stevenson's  excur- 
sions included  a  week  or  two  spent  with  me  at 
Hampstead,  during  which  he  joined  the  Savile  Club 
and  made  some  acquaintance  with  London  h'terary 
society;  a  yachting  trip  with  his  friend  Sir  Walter 
Simpson  in  the  western  islands  of  Scotland;  a  jour- 
ney to  Barmouth,  and  Llandudno  with  his  parents; 
and  in  the  late  autumn  a  walking  tour  in  Bucking- 
hamshire. The  Scottish  winter  (1874-75)  tried  him 
severely,  as  Scottish  winters  always  did,  but  was 
enlivened  by  a  new  and  what  was  destined  to  be  a 
very  fruitful  and  intimate  friendship,  the  origin  of 
which  was  described  in  the  following  letters,  namely 
that  of  Mr.  W.  E.  Henley.  In  April  1875  he  made 
his  first  visit,  in  the  company  of  his  cousin  R.  A.  M. 
Stevenson,  to  the  artist  haunts  of  the  forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau,  whence  he  returned  to  finish  his  reading 
for  the  Scottish  Bar  and  face  the  examination  which 
was  before  him  in  July.  During  all  this  year,  as 
will  be  seen,  his  chief,  almost  his  exclusive,  corre- 
spondents and  confidants  continued  to  be  the  same 
as  in  the  preceding  winter. 


AET.  24]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  149 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Written  in  Paris  on  his  way  home  to  Edinburgh.  Some  of  our 
talk  at  Mentone  had  run  on  the  scheme  of  a  spectacle  play  on  the 
story  of  the  burning  of  the  temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus  by  Hero- 
stratus,  the  type  of  insane  vanity  in  excelsis. 

[Hotel  St.  Romain,  Paris,  end  of  April  1874] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  am  a  great  deal  better,  but 
still  have  to  take  care.  I  have  got  quite  a  lot  of 
Victor  Hugo  done;  and  not  I  think  so  badly:  pitch- 
ing into  this  work  has  straightened  me  up  a  good 
deal.  It  is  the  devil's  own  weather  but  that  is  a 
trifle.  I  must  know  when  Cornhill  must  see  it.  I 
can  send  some  of  it  in  a  week  easily,  but  I  still  have 
to  read  The  Laughing  Man,^  and  I  mean  to  wait 
until  I  get  to  London  and  have  the  loan  of  that 
from  you.  If  I  buy  anything  more  this  production 
will  not  pay  itself.  The  first  part  is  not  too  well 
written,  though  it  has  good  stuff  in  it. 

My  people  have  made  no  objection  to  my  going 
to  Gottingen;  but  my  body  has  made  I  think  very 
strong  objections.  And  you  know  if  it  is  cold  here, 
it  must  be  colder  there.  It  is  a  sore  pity;  that  was 
a  great  chance  for  me,  and  it  is  gone.  I  know  very 
well  that  between  Galitzin  and  this  swell  professor 
I  should  have  become  a  good  specialist  in  law  and 
how  that  would  have  changed  and  bettered  all  my 
work  it  is  easy  to  see;  however  I  must  just  be  con- 
tent to  live  as  I  have  begun,  an  ignorant,  chic-y 
penny-a-liner.  May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  my 
soul ! 

*  L'Homme  qui  rii. 


150        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.h;., 

Going  home  not  very  well  is  an  astonishing  good 
hold  for  me.     I  shall  simply  be  a  i)rince. 

Have  you  had  any  thought  about  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians?  I  will  straighten  up  a  play  for  you,  but 
it  may  take  years.  A  play  is  a  thing  just  like  a  story, 
it  begins  to  disengage  itself  and  then  unrolls  gradu- 
ally in  block.  It  will  disengage  itself  some  day  for 
me  and  then  I  will  send  you  the  nugget  and  you  will 
see  if  you  can  make  anything  out  of  it. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

This  and  the  following  letters  were  written  after  Stevenson's  re- 
turn to  Scotland.  The  essay  Ordered  South  appeared  in  Marmil- 
lan's  Magazine  at  this  date;  that  on  \ictor  Hugo's  romances  in  the 
Cornhill  a  little  later. 

[Swanstori],  May  1874,  Monday 

We  are  now  at  Swanston  Cottage,  Lothianburn, 
Edinburgh.  The  garden  is  but  little  clothed  yet, 
for,  you  know,  here  we  are  six  hundred  feet  above 
the  sea.  It  is  very  cold,  and  has  sleeted  this  morning. 
Everything  wintry.  I  am  very  jolly,  however,  hav- 
ing finished  Victor  Hugo,  and  just  looking  round  to 
see  what  I  should  next  take  up.  I  have  been  read- 
ing Roman  Law  and  Calvin  this  morning. 

Evening. — I  went  up  the  hill  a  little  this  afternoon. 
The  air  was  invigorating,  but  it  was  so  cold  that  my 
scalp  was  sore.  With  this  high  wintry  wind,  and  the 
grey  sky,  and  faint  northern  daylight,  it  was  quite 
wonderful  to  hear  such  a  clamour  of  blackbirds 
coming  up  to  me  out  of  the  woods,  and  the  bleating 
of  sheep  being  shorn  in  a  field  near  the  garden,  and 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  151 

to  see  golden  patches  of  blossom  already  on  the  furze, 
and  delicate  green  shoots  upright  and  beginning  to 
frond  out,  among  last  year's  russet  bracken.  Flights 
of  crows  were  passing  continually  between  the  win- 
try leaden  sky  and  the  wintry  cold-looking  hills.  It 
was  the  oddest  conflict  of  seasons.  A  wee  rabbit — 
this  year's  making,  beyond  question — ran  out  from 
under  my  feet,  and  was  in  a  pretty  perturbation, 
until  he  hit  upon  a  lucky  juniper  and  blotted  himself 
there  promptly.  Evidently  this  gentleman  had  not 
had  much  experience  of  life. 

I  have  made  an  arrangement  with  my  people:  I 
am  to  have  ;,^84  a  year — I  only  asked  for  ;^8o  on 
mature  reflection — and  as  I  should  soon  make  a 
good  bit  by  my  pen,  I  shall  be  very  comfortable. 
We  are  all  as  jolly  as  can  be  together,  so  that  is  a 
great  thing  gained. 

Wednesday. — Yesterday  I  received  a  letter  that 
gave  me  much  pleasure  from  a  poor  fellow-student 
of  mine,  who  has  been  all  winter  very  ill,  and  seems 
to  be  but  little  better  even  now.  He  seems  very 
much  pleased  with  Ordered  South.  'A  month  ago,' 
he  says,  'I  could  scarcely  have  ventured  to  read  it; 
to-day  I  felt  on  reading  it  as  I  did  on  the  first  day 
that  I  was  able  to  sun  myself  a  little  in  the  open  air.' 
And  much  more  to  the  like  effect.  It  is  very  gratify- 
ing.— Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


152        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.874 


To    SlDNFA'    COLVIN 

"Mr.  John  Morlcy  had  asked  for  a  nolirc  by  R.  L.  S.  for  the  Fort- 
nightly Review,  which  he  was  then  editing,  of  Ix)rd  Lytton's  newly 
published  volume,  Fables  in  Song. 

Swanslon,  Lothianhurn,  Edinburgh  [May  1874] 

All  right.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  Before  I  could 
answer  I  had  to  see  the  book;  and  my  good  father, 
after  trying  at  all  our  libraries,  bought  it  for  me.  I 
like  the  book;  that  is  some  of  it  and  I'll  try  to  lick 
up  four  or  five  pages  for  the  FortnighUy. 

It  is  still  as  cold  as  cold,  hereaway.  And  the 
Spring  hammering  away  at  the  New  Year  in  despite. 
Poor  Sjiring,  scattering  flowers  with  red  hands  anv' 
preparing  for  Summer's  triumphs  all  in  a  shudder 
herself.  Health  still  good,  and  the  humour  for  work 
enduring. 

Tenkin  wrote  to  say  he  would  second  me  in  such  a 
kind  little  notelet.  I  shall  go  in  for  it  (the  Savile 
I  mean)  whether  Victor  Hugo  is  accepted  or  not, 
being  now  a  man  of  means.  Have  I  told  you  by 
the  way  that  I  have  now  an  income  of  ;i^84,  or  as  I 
prefer  to  put  it  for  dignity's  sake,  two  thousand  one 
hundred  francs,  a  year. 

In  lively  hope  of  better  weather  and  your  arrival 
hereafter. — I  remain,  yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 
To  Mrs.  Sit^vell 

Swanslon,  Wednesday,  May  1874 

Struggling  away  at  Fables  in  Song.  I  am  much 
afraid  I  am  going  to  make  a  real  failure;    the  time 


AET.  .4]  MRS.   SITWELL  153 

is  so  short;  and  I  am  so  out  of  the  humour.     Other- 
wise very  calm  and  jolly:   cold  still  impossible. 

Thursday. — I  feel  happier  about  the  Fables,  and 
it  is  warmer  a  bit;  but  my  body  is  most  decrepit, 
and  I  can  just  manage  to  be  cheery  and  tread  down 
hypochondria  under  foot  by  work.  I  lead  such  a 
funny  life,  utterly  without  interest  or  pleasure  out- 
side of  my  work:  nothing,  indeed,  but  work  all  day 
long,  except  a  short  walk  alone  on  the  cold  hills, 
and  meals,  and  a  couple  of  pipes  with  my  father  in 
the  evening.  It  is  surprising  how  it  suits  me,  and 
how  happy  I  keep. 

Friday. — 'My  dear  Stevenson  how  do  you  do? 
do  you  annoying  yourself  or  no?  when  we  go  to 
the  Olivses  it  allways  rememberse  us  you,  Nelly  and 
my  aunt  went  away.  And  when  the  organ  come 
and  play  the  Soldaten  it  mak  us  think  of  Nelly.  It  is 
so  sad!  allmoste  went  away.  I  make  my  baths; 
and  then  we  go  to  Franzensbad;  will  you  come  to 
see  us?' 

There  is  Fella's  letter  facsimile,  punctuation,  spell- 
ing and  all.  Mme.  Garschine's  was  rather  sad  and 
gave  me  the  blues  a  bit;  I  think  it  very  likely  I 
may  run  over  to  Franzensbad  for  a  week  or  so  this 
autumn,  if  I  am  wanted  that  is  to  say:  I  shall  be 
able  to  afford  it  easily. 

I  have  got  on  rather  better  with  the  Fables;  per- 
haps it  won't  be  a  failure,  though  I  fear.  To-day 
the  sun  shone  brightly  although  the  wind  was  cold: 
I  was  up  the  liill  a  good  time.  It  is  very  solemn 
to  see  the  top  of  one  hill  steadfastly  regarding  you 
over  the  shoulder  of  another:  I  never  before  to-day 


134        LLl  ILRS   OF   STEVENSON      [.874 

fully  realised  the  haunting  of  such  a  gigantic  face, 
as  it  peers  over  into  a  valley  and  seems  to  command 
all  corners.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  the  shepherd 
about  foreign  lands,  and  sheep.  A  Russian  had 
once  been  on  the  farm  as  a  pui)il;  he  told  me  that 
he  had  the  utmost  i)ity  for  the  Russian's  cajjacities, 
since  (dictionary  and  all)  he  had  never  managed  to 
understand  him;  it  must  be  remembered  that  my 
friend  the  shej)herd  spoke  Scotch  of  the  broadest 
and  often  enough  employs  words  which  I  do  not 
understand  myself. 

Saturday. — I  have  received  such  a  nice  long  letter 
(four  sides)  from  Leslie  Stephen  to-day  about  my 
Victor  Hugo.  It  is  accepted.  This  ought  to  have 
made  me  gay,  but  it  hasn't.  I  am  not  likely  to  be 
much  of  a  tonic  to-night.  I  have  been  very  cyn- 
ical over  myself  to-day,  partly,  perhaps,  because  I 
have  just  finished  some  of  the  deedest  rubbish  about 
Lord  Lytton's  Fables  that  an  intelligent  editor  ever 
shot  into  his  w'astepaper  basket.  If  Morley  prints 
it  I  shall  be  glad,  but  my  respect  for  him  will  be 
shaken. 


AET.  .4]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  155 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Enclosing  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen's  letter  accepting  the  article  on 
Victor  Hugo:  the  first  of  Stevenson's  many  contributions  to  the 
Cornhill  Magazine. 

[Edinburgh,  May  1874] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  scnd  you  L.  Stephen's  letter 
which  is  certainly  very  kind  and  jolly  to  get.^  I 
wrote  some  stuff  about  Lord  Lytton,  but  I  had  not 
the  heart  to  submit  it  to  you.     I  sent  it  direct  to 

1  This  letter,  accepting  the  first  contribution  of  R.  L.  S.,  has  by 
an  accident  been  preserved,  and  is  so  interesting,  both  for  its  occa- 
sion and  for  the  light  it  throws  on  the  wTiter's  care  and  kindness 
as  an  editor,  that  by  permission  of  his  representatives  I  here  print  it. 
'93  stands,  of  course,  for  the  novel  Qiiatre-vingt  Treize. 

15  Waterloo  Place,  S.  W.,  15/ 517 4 

DEAR  SIR, — I  have  read  vi^ith  great  interest  your  article  on  Victor 
Hugo  and  also  that  which  appeared  in  the  last  number  of  Macmil- 
lan.  I  shall  be  happy  to  accept  Hugo  and  if  I  have  been  rather 
long  in  answering  you,  it  is  only  because  I  wished  to  give  a  second 
reading  to  the  article,  and  have  lately  been  very  much  interrupted. 

I  will  now  venture  to  make  a  few  remarks,  and  by  way  of  preface 
I  must  say  that  I  do  not  criticise  you  because  I  take  a  low  view  of 
your  powers:  but  for  the  very  contrary  reason.  I  think  very  highly 
of  the  promise  shown  in  your  w  ritings  and  therefore  think  it  worth 
while  to  write  more  fully  than  I  can  often  to  contributors.  Nor  do 
I  set  myself  up  as  a  judge — I  am  very  sensible  of  my  own  failings 
in  the  critical  department  and  merely  submit  what  has  occurred  to 
me  for  your  consideration. 

I  fully  agree  with  the  greatest  portion  of  your  opinions  and  think 
them  very  favourably  expressed.  The  following  points  struck  me 
as  doubtful  when  I  read  and  may  perhaps  be  worth  notice. 

First,  you  seem  to  make  the  distinction  between  dramatic  and 
noveHstic  art  coincide  with  the  distinction  between  romantic  and 
i8th  centur}'.  This  strikes  me  as  doubtful,  as  at  least  to  require 
qualification.  To  my  mind  Hugo  is  far  more  dramatic  in  spirit 
than  Fielding,  though  his  method  involves  (as  you  show  exceedingly 
we'.l)  a  use  of  scenery  and  background  which  would  hardly  be  ad- 
missible in  drama.  I  am  not  able — I  fairly  confess — to  define  the 
dramatic  element  in  Hugo  or  to  say  why  I  think  it  absent  from 
Fielding  and  Richardson.     Vet  surely  Hugo's  own  dramas  are  a 


156        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.874 

Morley,  with  a  Spartan  billet.  God  knows  it  is  bad 
enough;  but  it  cost  me  labour  incredible.  I  was 
so  out  of  the  vein,  it  would  have  made  you  weep  to 
see  me  digging  the  rubbish  out  of  my  seven  wits 
with  groanings  unultcra])le.  I  certainly  mean  to 
come  to  London,  and  likely  before  long  if  all  goes 
well;  so  on  that  ground,  I  cannot  force  you  to  come 
to  Scotland.  Still,  the  weather  is  now  warm  and 
jolly,  and  of  course  it  would  not  be  expensive  to 
live  here  so  long  as  that  did  not  bore  you.  If  you 
could  see  the  hills  out  of  my  window  to-night,  you 
would  start  incontinent.  However  do  as  you  will, 
and   if  the   mountain  will  not  come  to  Mahomet 

sufficient  proof  that  a  drama  may  be  romantic  as  well  as  a  novel: 
though,  of  course,  the  pressure  of  the  great  moral  forces,  etc., 
must  be  indicated  bv  different  means.  The  question  is  rather  a 
curious  one  and  too  wide  to  discuss  in  a  letter.  I  merely  suggest 
what  seems  to  me  to  be  an  obvious  criticism  on  your  argument. 

Secondly,  you  speak  very  sensibly  of  the  melodramatic  and  clap- 
trap element  in  Hugo.  I  confess  that  it  seems  to  me  to  go  deeper 
into  his  work  than  vou  would  apparently  allow.  I  think  it,  for 
example,  ven,-  palpable  even  in  Notre  Dame,  and  I  doubt  the  his- 
torical fidelit'v,  though  my  ignorance  of  medieval  historj'  prevents 
me  from  putting  my  finger  on  many  faults.  The  consecjuence  is 
that  in  my  opinion  you  are  scarcely  just  to  Scott  or  Fielding  as  com- 
pared with  Hugo.  Granting  fully  his  amazing  force  and  fire,  he 
seems  to  me  to  be  deficient  often  in  that  kind  of  healthy  realism 
which  is  so  admirable  in  Scott's  best  work.  For  example,  though 
mv  Scotch  blood  (for  I  can  boast  of  some)  may  prejudice  me  I  am 
profoundly  convinced  that  Balfour  of  Burley  would  have  knocked 
M.  Lantenac  into  a  cocked  hat  and  stormed  la  Tourgue  if  it  had 
been  garrisoned  by  19  X  19  French  spouters  of  platitude  in  half 
the  time  that  Gauvain  and  Cimourdain  took  about  it.  In  fact, 
Balfour  seems  to  me  to  be  flesh  and  blood  and  Gauvain  &  Co. 
to  be  too  often  mere  personified  bombast:  and  therefore  I  fancy 
thatOW  Mortality  will  outlast  '93,  though  Notre  Dame  is  far  better 
than  Quentin  Durward,  and  Les  MiseraUes,  perhaps,  better  than 
anv.     This  is,  of  course,  fair  matter  of  opinion. 

Thirdly,  I  don't  think  that  you  quite  bring  out  your  meaning  in 
saying  that  '93  is  a  decisive  .symptom.     I  confess  that  I  don't  quite 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  157 

Mahomet  will  come  to  the  mountain  in  due  time, 
Mahomet  being  me  and  the  mountain  you,  Q.E.D., 
F.R.S.— Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Swanston,  May  1874],   Tuesday 

Another  cold  day;  yet  I  have  been  along  the 
hillside,  wondering  much  at  idiotic  sheep,  and  rais- 
ing partridges  at  every  second  step.  One  little 
plover  is  the  object  of  my  firm  adherence.  I  pass 
his  nest  every  day,  and  if  you  saw  how  he  flies  by 
me,  and  almost  into  my  face,  crying  and  flapping 

see  in  what  sense  it  decides  precisely  what  question.    A  sentence  or 
so  would  clear  this  up.  ^^^^■• 

Fourthly,  as  a  matter  of  form,  I  think  (but  I  am  very  doubtful)  that 
it  might  possibly  have  been  better  not  to  go  into  each  novel  m  suc- 
cession: but  to  group  the  substance  of  your  remarks  a  little  differ- 
ently. Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to  alter  the  form,  I  merely  notice 
the  point  as  suggesting  a  point  in  regard  to  any  future  article. 

Many  of  your  criticisms  in  detail  strike  me  as  very  good.  I  was 
much  pleased  by  your  remarks  on  the  storm  in  the  Travailleurs. 
There  was  another  very  odd  storm,  as  it  struck  me  on  a  hasty 
reading  in  '93,  where  there  is  mention  of  a  beautiful  summer  evening 
and  yet  the  wind  is  so  high  that  you  can't  hear  the  tocsin.  You 
do  justice  also  and  more  than  justice  to  Hugo's  tenderness  about 
children.     That  I  think,  points  to  one  great  source  of  his  power. 

It  would  be  curious  to  compare  Hugo  to  a  much  smaller  man 
Chas.  Reade,  who  is  often  a  kind  of  provincial  or  Daily  Telegraph 
Hugo.  However  that  would  hardly  do  in  the  Cornhill.  I  shall 
send  your  article  to  the  press  and  hope  to  use  it  in  July.  Any 
alterations  can  be  made  when  the  article  is  in  t>'pe,  if  any  are 
desirable.  I  cannot  promise  definitely  in  advance;  but  at  any  rate 
it  shall  appear  as  soon  as  may  be. 

Excuse  this  long  rigmarole  and  believe  me  to  be,  yours  very  truly, 

Leslie  Stephen 

I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you  again.  If  ever  you  come  to  town 
you  will  find  me  at  8  Southwell  Gardens,  (close  to  the  Gloucester 
Road  Station  of  the  Underground).  I  am  generally  at  home  except 
from  3  to  5. 


158        LETTKRS   OF   STEVENSON      [.87, 

his  wings,  to  direct  my  attention  from  his  little 
treasure,  you  would  have  as  kind  a  heart  to  him 
as  I.  To-day  I  saw  him  not,  although  I  took  my 
usual  way;  and  I  am  afraid  that  some  person  has 
abused  his  simple  wiliness  and  harried  (as  we  say 
in  Scotland)  the  nest.  I  feel  much  righteous  in- 
dignation against  such  imaginary  aggressor.  How- 
ever, one  must  not  be  too  chary  of  the  lower  forms. 
To-day  I  sat  down  on  a  tree-stump  at  the  skirt  of 
a  little  strip  of  planting,  and  thoughtlessly  began  to 
dig  out  the  touchwood  with  an  end  of  twig.  I  found 
I  had  carried  ruin,  death,  and  universal  consterna- 
tion into  a  little  community  of  ants;  and  this  set  me 
a-thinking  of  how  close  we  are  environed  with  frail 
lives,  so  that  we  can  do  nothing  without  spreading 
havoc  over  all  manner  of  perishable  homes  and 
interests  and  affections;  and  so  on  to  my  favourite 
mood  of  an  holy  terror  for  all  action  and  all  inac- 
tion equally — a  sort  of  shuddering  revulsion  from 
the  necessary  responsibilities  of  life.  We  must  not 
be  too  scrupulous  of  others,  or  we  shall  die.  Con- 
scientiousness is  a  sort  of  moral  opium;  an  excitant 
in  small  doses,  perhaps,  but  at  bottom  a  strong 
narcotic. 

Saturday. — I  have  been  two  days  in  Edinburgh, 
and  so  had  not  the  occasion  to  write  to  you.  Morley 
has  accepted  the  Fables,  and  I  have  seen  it  in  proof, 
and  think  less  of  it  than  ever.  However,  of  course, 
I  shall  send  you  a  copy  of  the  magazine  without 
fail,  and  you  can  be  as  disappointed  as  you  like,  or 
the  reverse  if  you  can.  I  would  willingly  recall  it 
if  I  could. 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  159 

Try,  by  way  of  change,  Byron's  Mazeppa;  you 
will  be  astonished.  It  is  grand  and  no  mistake, 
and  one  sees  through  it  a  fire,  and  a  passion,  and  a 
rapid  intuition  of  genius,  that  makes  one  rather 
sorry  for  one's  own  generation  of  better  writers, 
and — I  don't  know  what  to  say;  I  was  going  to 
say  'smaller  men';  but  that's  not  right;  read  it, 
and  you  will  feel  what  I  cannot  express.  Don't 
be  put  out  by  the  beginning;  persevere,  and  you 
will  find  yourself  thrilled  before  you  are  at  an  end 
with  it. 

Sunday. — The  white  mist  has  obliterated  the  hills 
and  lies  heavily  round  the  cottage,  as  though  it  were 
laying  siege  to  it;  the  trees  wave  their  branches  in 
the  wind,  with  a  solemn  melancholy  manner,  like 
people  swaying  themselves  to  and  fro  in  pain.  I 
am  alone  in  the  house,  all  the  world  being  gone 
to  church;  and  even  in  here  at  the  side  of  the  fire, 
the  air  clings  about  one  like  a  wet  blanket.  Yet 
this  morning,  when  I  was  just  awake,  I  had  thought 
it  was  going  to  be  a  fine  day.  First,  a  cock  crew, 
loudly  and  beautifully  and  often;  then  followed  a 
long  interval  of  silence  and  darkness,  the  grey  morn- 
ing began  to  get  into  my  room;  and  then  from  the 
other  side  of  the  garden,  a  blackbird  executed  one 
long  flourish,  and  in  a  moment  as  if  a  spring  had 
been  touched  or  a  sluice-gate  opened,  the  whole  gar- 
den just  brimmed  and  ran  over  with  bird-songs.— 
Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


i6o        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.874 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

For  a  part  of  June  Stevenson  had  come  south,  spending  most  of 
his  time  in  lodgings  with  me  at  Ilampstead  (where  he  got  the  idea 
for  i)art  of  his  essay  A^olcs  on  the  Mm'cmenls  of  Young  Children) 
and  making  his  first  apjjcarance  at  the  Savilc  Club.  Trouble 
awaited  him  after  his  return. 

[Swanston,  June  1874],  Wednesday 

News  reaches  me  that  Bob  is  laid  down  with 
diphtheria;  and  you  know  what  that  means. 

Night. — I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  have  on  the  whole 
a  good  account  of  Bob  and  I  do  hope  he  may  pull 
through  in  spite  of  all.  I  went  down  and  saw  the 
doctor;  but  it  is  not  thought  right  that  I  should  go 
in  to  see  him  in  case  of  contagion:  you  know  it  is 
a  very  contagious  malady. 

Thursday. — It  is  curious  how  calm  I  am  in  such 
a  case.  I  wait  with  perfect  composure  for  farther 
news;  I  can  do  nothing;  why  should  I  disturb  my- 
self? And  yet  if  things  go  wrong  I  shall  be  in  a 
fine  way  I  can  tell  you. 

How  curiously  we  are  built  up  into  our  false 
positions.  The  other  day,  having  toothache  and 
the  black  dog  on  my  back  generally,  I  was  rude 
to  one  of  the  servants  at  the  dinner-table.  And 
nothing  of  course  can  be  more  disgusting  than  for 
a  man  to  speak  harshly  to  a  young  woman  who  will 
lose  her  place  if  she  speak  back  to  him;  and  of 
course  I  determined  to  ajwlogise.  Well,  do  you 
know,  it  was  perhaps  four  days  before  I  found 
courage  enough,  and  I  felt  as  red  and  ashamed  as 
could  be.     Why?    because  I  had  been  rude?    not  a 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  161 

bit  of  it;  because  I  was  doing  a  thing  that  would 
be  called  ridiculous  in  thus  apologising.  I  did  not 
know  I  had  so  much  respect  of  middle-class  notions 
before;  this  is  my  right  hand  which  I  must  cut  off. 
Hold  the  arm  please :  once — twice — thrice:  the  offen- 
sive member  is  amputated :  let  us  hope  I  shall  never 
be  such  a  cad  any  more  as  to  be  ashamed  of  being  a 
gentleman. 

Night. — I  suppose  I  must  have  been  more  affected 
than  I  thought;  at  least  I  found  I  could  not  work 
this  morning  and  had  to  go  out.  The  whole  garden 
was  filled  with  a  high  westerly  wind,  coming  straight 
out  of  the  hills  and  richly  scented  with  furze — or 
whins,  as  we  would  say.  The  trees  were  all  in  a 
tempest  and  roared  like  a  heavy  surf;  the  paths  all 
strewn  with  fallen  apple-blossom  and  leaves,  I  got 
a  quiet  seat  behind  a  yew  and  went  away  into  a 
meditation.  I  was  very  happy  after  my  own  fash- 
ion, and  whenever  there  came  a  blink  of  sunshine 
or  a  bird  whistled  higher  than  usual,  or  a  little  powder 
of  white  apple-blossom  came  over  the  hedge  and 
settled  about  me  in  the  grass,  I  had  the  gladdest 
little  flutter  at  my  heart  and  stretched  myself  for 
very  voluptuousness.  I  wasn't  altogether  taken  up 
with  my  private  pleasures,  however,  and  had  many 
a  look  down  ugly  vistas  in  the  future,  for  Bob  and 
others.  But  we  must  all  be  content  and  brave,  and 
look  eagerly  for  these  little  passages  of  happiness  by 
the  wayside,  and  go  on  afterwards,  savouring  them 
under  the  tongue. 

Friday. — Our  garden  has  grown  beautiful  at  last, 
beautiful  Avith  fresh  foliage  and  daisied  grass.      The 


i62        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.87^ 

sky  is  still  cloudy  and  the  day  perhaps  even  a  little 
gloomy;  but  under  this  grey  roof,  in  this  shaded 
temperate  li.ght,  how  delightful  the  new  summer  is. 

When  I  shall  come  to  London  must  always  be 
problematical  like  all  my  movements,  and  of  course 
this  sickness  of  Bob's  makes  it  still  more  uncertain. 
If  all  goes  well  I  may  have  to  go  to  the  country 
and  take  care  of  him  in  his  convalescence.  But  I 
shall  come  shortly.  Do  not  hurry  to  write  to  me;  I 
had  rather  you  had  ten  minutes  more  of  good, 
friendly  sleep,  than  I  a  longer  letter;  and  you  know 
I  am  rather  partial  to  your  letters.  Yesterday,  by 
the  bye,  I  received  the  proof  of  Victor  Hugo;  it  is 
not  nicely  written,  but  the  stuff  is  capital,  I  think. 
Modesty  is  my  most  remarkable  quality,  I  may 
remark  in  passing, 

1.30. — I  was  out,  behind  the  yew  hedge,  reading 
the  Contesse  de  Rudolstadt  when  I  found  my  eyes 
grow  weary,  and  looked  up  from  the  book.  O  the 
rest  of  the  quiet  greens  and  whites,  of  the  daisied 
surface!  I  was  very  jjeaceful,  but  it  began  to  sprinkle 
rain  and  so  I  fain  to  come  in  for  a  moment  and 
chat  with  you.  By  the  way,  I  must  send  you  Con- 
suelo;  you  said  you  had  quite  forgotten  it  if  I  re- 
member aright;  and  surely  a  book  that  could  divert 
me,  when  I  thought  myself  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
grave,  from  the  work  that  I  so  much  desired  and 
was  yet  unable  to  do,  and  from  many  painful 
thoughts,  should  somewhat  support  and  amuse  you 
under  all  the  hard  things  that  may  be  coming  upon 
you.  If  you  should  wonder  why  I  am  writing  to 
you  so  voluminously,  know  that  it  is  because  I  am 


AET.  24]  MRS.  SITWELL  163 

not  suffering  myself  to  work,  and  in  idleness,  as  in 
death,  etc.  .  .  . 

Saturday. — I  have  had  a  very  cruel  day.  I  heard 
this  morning  that  yesterday  Bob  had  been  very 
much  worse  and  I  went  down  to  Portobello  with  all 
sorts  of  horrible  presentiments.  I  was  glad  when  I 
turned  the  corner  and  saw  the  blinds  still  up.  He 
was  definitely  better,  if  the  word  definitely  can  be 
used  about  such  a  detestably  insidious  complaint.  I 
have  ordered  Consuelo  for  you,  and  you  should  have 
it  soon  this  week;  I  mean  next  week  of  course;  I 
am  thinking  when  you  will  receive  this  letter,  not  of 
now  when  I  am  writing  it. 

I  am  so  tired;  but  I  am  very  hopeful.  All  will 
be  well  some  time,  if  it  be  only  when  we  are  dead. 
One  thing  I  see  so  clearly.  Death  is  the  end  neither 
of  joy  nor  sorrow.  Let  us  pass  into  the  clouds  and 
come  up  again  as  grass  and  flowers;  we  shall  still 
be  this  wonderful,  shrinking,  sentient  matter — we 
shall  still  thrill  to  the  sun  and  grow  relaxed  and 
quiet  after  rain,  and  have  all  manner  of  pains  and 
pleasures  that  we  know  not  of  now.  Conscious- 
ness, and  ganglia,  and  suchlike,  are  after  all  but 
theories.  And  who  knows?  This  God  may  not  be 
cruel  when  all  is  done;  he  may  relent  and  be  good 
to  us  a  la  fin  des  fins.  Think  of  how  he  tempers 
our  afflictions  to  us,  of  how  tenderly  he  mixes  in 
bright  joys  with  the  grey  web  of  trouble  and  care 
that  we  call  our  life.  Think  of  how  he  gives,  who 
takes  away.  Out  of  the  bottom  of  the  miry  clay  I 
write  this;  and  I  look  forward  confidently;  I  have 
faith  after  all;   I  believe,  I  hope,  I  unll  not  have  it 


i64        LETTERS  OF  S'i"EVENSON      [.874 

reft  from  mc;  there  is  something  good  behind  it  all. 
bitter  and  terrible  as  it  seems.  The  infinite  majesty 
(as  it  will  be  always  in  regard  to  us  the  bubbles  of 
an  hour)  the  infinite  majesty  must  have  moments, 
if  it  were  no  more,  of  greatness;  must  sometimes 
be  touched  with  a  feeling  for  our  infirmities,  must 
sometimes  relent  and  be  clement  to  those  frail  jjlay- 
things  that  he  has  made,  and  made  so  bitterly  alive. 
Must  it  not  be  so,  my  dear. friend,  out  of  the  depths 
I  cry?  I  feel  it,  now  when  I  am  most  painfully 
conscious  of  his  cruelty.  He  must  relent.  He  must 
reward.  He  must  give  some  indemnity,  if  it  were 
but  in  the  quiet  of  a  daisy,  tasting  of  the  sun,  and  the 
soft  rain  and  the  sweet  shadow  of  trees,  for  all  the 
dire  fever  that  he  makes  us  bear  in  this  poor  exist- 
ence. We  make  too  much  of  this  human  life  of 
ours.  It  may  be  that  two  clods  together,  two  flowers 
together,  two  grown  trees  together  touching  each 
other  deliciously  with  their  spread  leaves,  it  may  be 
that  these  dumb  things  have  their  own  priceless 
sympathies,  surer  and  more  untroubled  than  ours. 

I  don't  know  quite  whether  I  have  wandered. 
Forgive  me,  I  feel  as  I  had  relieved  myself;  so  per- 
haps it  may  not  be  unpleasant  for  you  either. — 
Believe  me,  ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Swanslon,  Sunday  {June  1874) 

DEAR  FRIEND, — I  fear  to  have  added  something  to 
your  troubles  by  telling  you  of  the  grief  in  which  I 


^^T.  24]  MRS.  SITWELL  165 

find  myself;  but  one  cannot  always  come  to  meet  a 
friend  smiling,  although  we  should  try  for  the  best 
cheer  possible.  All  to-day  I  have  been  very  weary, 
resting  myself  after  the  trouble  and  fatigue  of  yester- 
day. The  day  was  warm  enough,  but  it  blew  a 
whole  gale  of  wind;  and  the  noise  and  the  purpose- 
less rude  violence  of  it  somehow  irritated  and  de- 
pressed me.  There  was  good  news  however,  though 
the  anxiety  must  still  be  long.  O  peace,  peace, 
whither  are  you  fled  and  where  have  you  carried 
my  old  quiet  humour  ?  I  am  so  bitter  and  disquiet 
and  speak  even  spitefully  to  people.  And  somehow, 
though  I  promise  myself  amendment,  day  after  day 
finds  me  equally  rough  and  sour  to  those  about  me. 
But  this  would  pass  with  good  health  and  good 
weather;  and  at  bottom  I  am  not  unhappy;  the  soil 
is  still  good  although  it  bears  thorns;  and  the  time 
will  come  again  for  flowers. 

Wednesday.— I  got  your  letter  this  morning  and 
have  to  thank  you  so  much  for  it.  Bob  is  much 
better;  and  I  do  hope  out  of  danger.  To-day  has 
been  more  glorious  than  I  can  tell  you.  It  has  been 
the  first  day  of  blue  sky  that  we  have  had;  and  it 
was  happiness  for  a  week  to  see  the  clear  bright  out- 
line of  the  hills  and  the  glory  of  sunlit  foliage  and  the 
darkness  of  green  shadows,  and  the  big  white  clouds 
that  went  voyaging  overhead  deliberately.  My  two 
cousins  from  Portobello  were  here:  and  they  and  I 
and  Maggie  ended  the  afternoon  by  lying  half  an 
hour  together  on  a  shawl.  The  big  cloud  had  all 
been  carded  out  into  a  thin  luminous  white  gauze, 
miles  away;    and  miles  away  too  seemed  the  little 


i66        LETIKRS   OF   S'iKVKNSON       fs?^ 

black  birds  that  passed  between  this  and  us  as  we 
lay  with  faces  upturned.  The  similarity  of  what  we 
saw  struck  in  us  a  curious  similarity  of  mood;  and 
in  consequence  of  the  small  size  of  the  shawl,  we  all 
lay  so  close  that  we  half  pretended,  half  felt,  we  had 
lost  our  individualities  and  had  become  merged  and 
mixed  up  in  a  quadruple  existence.  We  had  the 
shadow  of  an  umbrella  over  ourselves,  and  when 
any  one  reached  out  a  brown  hand  into  the  golden 
sunlight  overhead  we  all  feigned  that  we  did  not 
know  whose  hand  it  was,  until  at  last  I  don't  really 
think  we  quite  did.  Little  black  insects  also  passed 
over  us  and  in  the  same  half  wanton  manner  we 
pretended  we  could  not  distinguish  them  from  the 
birds.  There  was  a  splendid  sunlit  silence  about  us, 
and  as  Katharine  said  the  heavens  seemed  to  be 
dropping  oil  on  us,  or  honey-dew — it  was  all  so 
bland. 

Thursday  evening. — I  have  seen  Bob  again,  and  I 
was  charmed  at  his  convalescence.  Le  bon  Dieu  has 
been  so  bon  this  time:  here's  his  health!  Still  the 
danger  is  not  over  by  a  good  way;  it  is  so  miserable 
a  thing  for  reverses. 

I  hear  the  wind  outside  roaring  among  our  leafy 
trees  as  the  surf  on  some  loud  shore.  The  hill-toj) 
is  whelmed  in  a  passing  rain-shower  and  the  mist 
lies  low  in  the  valleys.  But  the  night  is  warm  and 
in  our  little  sheltered  garden  it  is  fair  and  pleasant, 
and  the  borders  and  hedges  and  evergreens  and 
boundary  trees  are  all  distinct  in  an  equable  diffu- 
sion of  light  from  the  buried  moon  and  the  day  not 
altogether  passed  away.     My  dear  friend,  as  I  heai 


AEt.  24]  MRS.  SITWELL  167 

the  wind  rise  and  die  away  in  that  tempestuous 
world  of  foliage,  I  seem  to  be  conscious  of  I  know 
not  what  breath  of  creation.  I  know  what  this 
warm  wet  wind  of  the  west  betokens,  I  know  how 
already,  in  this  morning's  sunshine,  we  could  see  all 
the  hills  touched  and  accentuated  with  little  delicate 
golden  patches  of  young  fern;  how  day  by  day  the 
flowers  t-hicken  and  the  leaves  unfold;  how  already 
the  year  is  a-tip-toe  on  the  summit  of  its  finished 
youth;  and  I  am  glad  and  sad  to  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  at  the  knowledge.  If  you  knew  how  different 
I  am  from  what  I  was  last  year;  how  the  knowledge 
of  you  has  changed  and  finished  me,  you  would  be 
glad  and  sad  also. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  strain  of  anxiety  recorded  in  the  two  last  letters  had  given  a 
shake  to  Stevenson's  own  health,  and  it  was  agreed  that  he  should 
go  for  a  yachting  tour  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson  in  the  Inner  Hebrides. 

[Edinburgh,  June  1874],  Thursday 

I  HAVE  been  made  so  miserable  by  Chopin's 
Marche  funebre.  Try  two  of  Schubert's  songs  '  Ich 
ungluckselige  Atlas''  and  ^Du  schones  Fischermddchen^ 
— they  are  very  jolly.  I  have  read  aloud  my  death- 
cycle  from  Walt  Whitman  this  evening.  I  was  very 
much  affected  myself,  never  so  much  before,  and  it 
fetched  the  auditory  considerable.  Reading  these 
things  that  I  like  aloud  when  I  am  painfully  excited 
is  the  keenest  artistic  pleasure  I  know.  It  does  seem 
strange  that  these  dependent  arts — singing,  acting, 


i68       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      (1874 

and  in  its  small  way  reading  aloud  seem  the  best 
rewarded  of  all  arts.  I  am  sure  it  is  more  exciting 
for  me  to  read  than  it  was  for  \V.  W.  to  write;  and 
how  much  more  must  this  be  so  with  singing. 

Friday. — I  am  going  in  the  yacht  on  Wednesday. 
I  am  not  right  yet,  and  I  hope  the  yacht  will  set 
me  up.  I  am  too  tired  to-night  to  make  more  of  it. 
Good-bye. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  June  1874],  Friday 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  am  seedy — very  seedy,  I  may 
say.  I  am  quite  unfit  for  any  work  or  any  pleasure; 
and  generally  very  sick.  I  am  going  away  next  week 
on  Wednesday  for  my  cruise  which  I  hope  will  set 
me  up  again.  I  should  like  a  proof  here  up  to 
Wednesday  morning,  or  at  Greenock,  Tontine  Hotel, 
up  to  Friday  morning,  as  I  don't  quite  know  my 
future  address.  I  hope  you  are  better,  and  that  it 
was  not  that  spell  of  work  you  had  that  did  the 
harm.  It  is  to  my  spurt  of  work  that  I  am  redevahle 
for  my  harm.  Walt  Whitman  is  at  the  bottom  of 
it  all,  ^cre  nom\  What  a  pen  I  have! — a  new  pen, 
God  be  praised,  how  smoothly  it  functions!  Would 
that  I  could  work  as  well.  Chorus — Would  that 
both  of  us  could  work  as  well — would  that  all  of  us 
could  work  as  well! — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

P.S. — Bob  is  better;  but  he  might  be  better  yet. 
All  goes  smoothly  except  my  murrained  health. 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  169 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Swanston  [Summer  1874] 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  am  back  again  here,  as  brown 
as  a  berry  with  sun,  and  in  good  form.  I  have  been 
and  gone  and  lost  my  portmanteau,  with  Walt  Whit- 
man in  it  and  a  lot  of  notes.  This  is  a  nuisance. 
However,  I  am  pretty  happy,  only  wearying  for  news 
of  you  and  for  your  address. 

Friday. — A  la  bonne  heure!  I  hear  where  you  are 
and  that  you  are  apparently  fairish  well.  That  is 
good  at  least.  I  am  full  of  Reformation  work;  up 
to  the  eyes  in  it;  and  begin  to  feel  learned.  A  beau- 
tiful day  outside,  though  something  cold. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

Of  the  projects  here  mentioned,  that  of  the  Httle  book  of  essays 
on  the  enjoyment  of  the  world  never  took  shape,  nor  were  those 
contributions  towards  it  which  he  printed  in  the  Portfolio  ever 
re-published  until  after  the  writer's  death.  The  Appeal  to  the  Clergy 
of  the  Church  of  Scotland  was  printed  in  1874,  published  as  a 
pamphlet  in  February  1875,  and  attracted,  I  believe,  no  attention 
whatever.  The  Fables  must  have  been  some  of  the  earliest  numbers 
of  the  series  continued  at  odd  times  till  near  the  date  of  his  death 
and  published  posthumously:  I  do  not  know  which,  but  should 
guess  The  House  of  Eld,  Yellow  Paint,  and  perhaps  those  in  the 
vein  of  Celtic  mystery,  The  Touchstone,  The  Poor  Thing,  The  Song 
of  To-morrow. 

[Swanston,  Summer  1874],  Tuesday 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — What  is  new  with  you  ?  There 
is  nothing  new  with  me:  Knox  and  his  females  begin 
to  get  out  of  restraint  altogether;  the  subject  ex- 
pands so  damnably,  I  know  not  where  to  cut  it  off. 
.1  have  another  paper  for  the  PTFL  ^  on  the  stocks : 

*  Portfolio. 


170     letti:rs  of  stkvknson     [.874 

a  sequel  to  the  two  others;  also,  that  is  to  say,  a 
word  in  season  as  to  contentment  and  a  hint  to  the 
careless  to  look  around  them  for  disregarded  pleas- 
ures. Seeley  wrote  to  me  asking  me  'to  propose' 
something,':  I  suppose  he  means — well,  I  suppose 
I  don't  know  what  he  means.  But  I  shall  write  to 
him  (if  you  think  it  wise)  when  I  send  him  this 
paper,  saying  that  my  writing  is  more  a  matter  of 
God's  disposition  than  of  man's  proposal;  that  I  had 
from  Roads  upward  ever  intended  to  make  a  little 
budget  of  little  papers  all  with  this  intention  before 
them,  call  it  ethical  or  jcsthetic  as  you  will;  and 
thus  I  shall  leave  it  to  him  (if  he  likes)  to  regard  this 
little  budget,  as  slowly  they  come  forth,  as  a  unity 
in  its  own  small  way.  Twelve  or  twenty  such  essays, 
some  of  them  mainly  ethical  and  expository,  put 
together  in  a  little  book  with  narrow  print  in  each 
page,  antique,  vine  leaves  about,  and  the  following 
title. 

XII    (or  XX)    ESSAYS    ON   THE   ENJOYMENT 
OF   THE   world: 

By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

{A  motto  in  italics) 

Publisher 
Place  and  date 

You  know  the  class  of  old  book  I  have  in  my  head. 
I  smack  my  lips;  would  it  not  be  nice!  I  am  going 
to  launch  on  Scotch  ecclesiastical  affairs,  in  a  tract 
addressed  to  the  Clergy;   in  which  doctrinal  matters 


AET.  24]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  171 

being  laid  aside,  I  contend  simply  that  they  should 
be  just  and  dignified  men  at  a  certain  crisis:  this 
for  the  honour  of  humanity.  Its  authorship  must,  of 
course,  be  secret  or  the  publication  would  be  useless. 
You  shall  have  a  copy  of  course,  and  may  God  help 
you  to  understand  it. 

I  have  done  no  more  to  my  Fables.  I  find  I  must 
let  things  take  their  time.  I  am  constant  to  my 
schemes;  but  I  must  work  at  them  fitfully  as  the 
humour  moves. 

— To  return,  I  wonder,  if  I  have  to  make  a  budget 
of  such  essays  as  I  dream,  whether  Seeley  would 
publish  them:  I  should  give  them  unity,  you  know, 
by  the  doctrinal  essays;  nor  do  I  think  these  would 
be  the  least  agreeable.  You  must  give  me  your 
advice  and  tell  me  whether  I  should  throw  out  this 
delicate  feeler  to  R.  S.^;  or  if  not,  what  I  am  to 
say  to  this  'proposal'  business. 

I  shall  go  to  England  or  Wales,  with  parents, 
shortly:  after  which,  dash  to  Poland  before  setting 
in  for  the  dismal  session  at  Edinburgh. 

Spirits  good,  with  a  general  sense  of  hollowness 
underneath:   wanity  of  wanities  etc. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

P.  S. — Parents  capital;  thanks  principally  to  them; 
yours  truly  still  rather  bitter,  but  less  so. 

•  Richmond  Seeley. 


172        LK'nKRS   OF   STEVENSON       [1874 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  last  paragraph  of  the  following  means  that  Dr.  Apj)leton, 
the  amiable  and  indefatigable  editor  of  the  Academy,  then  recently 
founded,  had  been  a  little  disturbed  in  minrl  by  some  of  the  con- 
tributions of  his  brilliant  young  friend,  but  allowed  his  academic 
conscience  to  be  salved  by  the  fact  of  their  signature. 

[Swanslon,  Summer  1874] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Am  I  mad  ?  Have  I  lived  thus 
long  and  have  you  known  me  thus  long,  to  no  pur- 
pose? Do  you  imagine  I  could  ever  write  an  essay 
a  month,  or  promise  an  essay  even  every  three 
months?  I  declare  I  would  rather  die  than  enter 
into  any  such  arrangement.  The  Essays  must  fall 
from  me,  Essay  l)y  ICssay,  as  they  ripen;  anfl  all 
that  my  communication  with  Seeley  would  elTect 
would  be  to  make  him  see  more  in  them  than  mere 
occasional  essays;  or  at  least  look  far  more  faith- 
fully, in  which  spirit  men  rarely  look  in  vain.  You 
know  both  Roads  and  my  little  girls  *  are  a  part  of 
the  scheme  which  dates  from  early  at  Mcntone.  My 
word  to  Seeley,  therefore,  vrould  be  to  inform  him 
of  what  I  hope  will  lie  ultimately  behind  them,  of 
how  I  regard  them  as  contributions  towards  a  friend- 
lier and  more  thoughtful  way  of  looking  about  one, 
etc.  One  other  purpose  of  telling  him  would  be 
that  I  should  feel  myself  more  at  liberty  to  write  as 
I  please,  and  not  bound  to  drag  in  a  tag  about  Art 
every  time  to  make  it  more  suitable.  Tying  myself 
down  to  time  is  an  impossibility.  You  know  my 
own  description  of  myself  as  a  person  with  a  poetic 

I  The  essay  Notes  on  the  Movements  0/  Young  Children. 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  173 

character  and  no  poetic  talent;  just  as  my  prose 
muse  has  all  the  ways  of  a  poetic  one,  and  I  must 
take  my  Essays  as  they  come  to  me.  If  I  got  12  of 
'em  done  in  two  years,  I  should  be  pleased.  Never, 
please,  let  yourself  imagine  that  I  am  fertile;  I  am 
constipated  in  the  brains. 

Look  here,  Appleton  dined  here  last  night  and 
was  delightful  after  the  manner  of  our  Appleton:  I 
was  none  the  less  pleased,  because  I  was  somewhat 
amused,  to  hear  of  your  kind  letter  to  him  in  defence 
of  my  productions.  I  was  amused  at  the  tranquil 
dishonesty  with  which  he  told  me  that  I  must  put 
my  name  to  all  I  write  and  then  all  will  be  well.— 
Yours  ever,  R   I     S 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Written  on  an  expedition  to  Wales  with  his  parents. 

Train  between  Edinburgh  and 
.  Chester,  August  8,  1874 

My  father  and  mother  reading.  I  think  I  shall 
talk  to  you  for  a  moment  or  two.  This  morning  at 
Swanston,  the  birds,  poor  creatures,  had  the  most 
troubled  hour  or  two;  evidently  there  was  a  hawk 
in  the  neighbourhood;  not  one  sang;  and  the  whole 
garden  thrilled  with  little  notes  of  warning  and 
terror.  I  did  not  know  before  that  the  voice  of  the 
birds  could  be  so  tragically  expressive.  I  had  always 
heard  them  before  express  their  trivial  satisfaction 
with  the  blue  sky  and  the  return  of  daylight.  Really, 
they  almost  frightened  me;  I  could  hear  mothers  and 
wives  in  terror  for  those  who  were  dear  to  them;   ir 


174        LE'rrKRS   OF   STEVENSON       [.874 

was  easy  to  translate,  I  wish  it  were  as  easy  to  write; 
but  it  is  very  hard  in  this  flying  train,  or  I  would 
write  you  more. 

CJicster. — I  like  this  place  much;  but  somehow  I 
feel  glad  when  I  get  among  the  quiet  eighteenth  cen- 
tury buildings,  in  cosy  places  with  some  elbow  room 
about  them,  after  the  older  architecture.  This  other 
is  bedevilled  and  furtive;  it  seems  to  stoop;  I  am 
afraid  of  trap-doors,  and  could  not  go  pleasantly 
into  such  houses.  I  don't  know  how  much  of  this 
is  legitimately  the  efi"ect  of  the  architecture;  little 
enough  possibly;  possibly  far  the  most  part  of  it 
comes  from  bad  historical  novels  and  the  disquieting 
statuary  that  garnishes  some  facades. 

On  the  way,  to-day,  I  passed  through  my  dear 
Cumberland  country.  Nowhere  to  as  great  a  de- 
gree can  one  lind  the  combination  of  lowland  and 
highland  beauties;  the  outline  of  the  blue  hills  is 
broken  by  the  outline  of  many  tumultuous  tree- 
clumps;  and  the  broad  spaces  of  moorland  are  bal- 
anced by  a  network  of  deep  hedgerows  that  might 
rival  Suffolk,  in  the  foreground. — How  a  railway 
journey  shakes  and  discomposes  one,  mind  and 
body!  I  grow  blacker  and  blacker  in  humour  as 
the  day  goes  on;  and  when  at  last  I  am  let  out,  and 
have  the  fresh  air  about  me,  it  is  as  though  I  were 
born  again,  and  the  sick  fancies  flee  away  from  my 
mind  like  swans  in  spring. 

I  want  to  come  back  on  what  I  have  said  about 
eighteenth  century  and  middle-age  houses:  I  do  not 
know  if  I  have  yet  explained  to  you  the  sort  of 
loyalty,  of  uibanity,  that  there  is  about  the  one  to 


AET.  24]  MRS.  SITWELL  175 

my  mind;  the  spirit  of  a  country  orderly  and  pros- 
perous, a  flavour  of  the  presence  of  magistrates  and 
well-to-do  merchants  in  bag-wigs,  the  clink  of  glasses 
at  night  in  fire-lit  parlours,  something  certain  and 
civic  and  domestic,  is  all  about  these  quiet,  staid, 
shapely  houses,  with  no  character  but  their  exceed- 
ing shapeliness,  and  the  comely  external  utterance 
that  they  make  of  their  internal  comfort.  Now  the 
others  are,  as  I  have  said,  both  furtive  and  be- 
devilled; they  are  sly  and  grotesque;  they  combine 
their  sort  of  feverish  grandeur  with  their  sort  of 
secretive  baseness,  after  the  manner  of  a  Charles 
the  Ninth.  They  are  peopled  for  me  with  persons 
of  the  same  fashion.  Dwarfs  and  sinister  people  in 
cloaks  are  about  them;  and  I  seem  to  divine  crypts, 
and,  as  I  said,  trap-doors.  O  God  be  praised  that 
we  live  in  this  good  daylight  and  this  good  peace. 

Barmouth,  August  gth. — To-day  we  saw  the  cathe- 
dral at  Chester;  and,  far  more  delightful,  saw  and 
heard  a  certain  inimitable  verger  who  took  us  round. 
He  was  full  of  a  certain  recondite,  far-away  humour 
that  did  not  quite  make  you  laugh  at  the  time,  but 
was  somehow  laughable  to  recollect.  Moreover,  he 
had  so  far  a  just  imagination,  and  could  put  one  in 
the  right  humour  for  seeing  an  old  place,  very  much 
as,  according  to  my  favourite  text,  Scott's  novels  and 
poems  do  for  one.  His  account  of  the  monks  in  the 
Scriptorium,  with  their  cowls  over  their  heads,  in  a 
certain  sheltered  angle  of  the  cloister  where  the  big 
cathedral  building  kept  the  sun  off  the  parchments, 
was  all  that  could  be  wished;  and  so  too  was  what 
he  added  of  the  others  pacing  solemnly  behind  ihem 


176       LETFKRS  OF  S'IKVKNSON      [.874 

and  drop])ing,  ever  and  a/^'ain,  on  their  knees  before 
a  little  shrine  there  is  in  the  wall,  'to  keep  'em  in 
the  frame  of  mind.'  You  will  begin  to  think  me 
unduly  biassed  in  this  verger's  favour  if  I  go  on  to 
tell  you  his  opinion  of  me.  We  got  into  a  little  side 
chajjel,  whence  we  could  hear  the  choir  children  at 
practice,  and  I  stoj)ped  a  moment  listening  to  them, 
with,  1  dare  say,  a  very  l^right  face,  for  the  sound 
was  delightful  to  me.  'Ah,'  says  he,  'you're  very 
fond  of  music'  I  said  I  was.  'Yes,  I  could  tell 
that  by  your  head,'  he  answered.  'There's  a  deal 
in  that  head.'  And  he  shook  his  own  solemnly.  I 
said  it  might  be  so,  but  I  found  it  hard,  at  least,  to 
get  it  out.  Then  my  father  cut  in  brutally,  said  any- 
way I  had  no  ear,  and  left  the  verger  so  distressed 
and  shaken  in  the  foundations  of  his  creed  that,  I 
hear,  he  got  my  father  aside  afterwards  and  said  he 
was  sure  there  was  something  in  my  face,  and  wanted 
to  know  what  it  was,  if  not  music.  He  was  relieved 
when  he  heard  that  I  occupied  myself  with  literature 
(which  word,  note  here,  I  do  now  spell  correctly). 
Good -night,  and  here's  the  verger's  health! 

Friday. — Yesterday  received  the  letter  you  know 
of.  I  have  fmished  my  Portfolio  paper,  not  very  good 
but  with  things  in  it:  I  don't  know  if  they  will  take 
it;  and  I  have  got  a  good  start  made  with  my  John 
Knox  articles.  The  weather  here  is  rainy  and  miser- 
able and  windy :  it  is  warm  and  not  over  boisterous 
for  a  certain  sort  of  pleasure.  This  place,  as  I  have 
made  my  first  real  inquisition  into  it  to-night  is  curi- 
ous enough;  all  the  days  I  have  been  here,  I  have 
been  at  work,  and  so  I  was  quite  new  to  it. 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  177 

Saturday. — A  most  beautiful  day.  We  took  a 
most  beautiful  drive,  also  up  the  banks  of  the  river. 
The  heather  and  furze  are  in  flower  at  once  and  make 
up  a  splendid  richness  of  colour  on  the  hills;  the  trees 
were  beautiful;  there  was  a  bit  of  winding  road  with 
larches  on  one  hand  and  oaks  on  the  other;  the  oaks 
were  in  shadow  and  printed  themselves  off  at  every 
corner  on  the  sunlit  background  of  the  larches.  We 
passed  a  little  family  of  children  by  the  roadside. 
The  youngest  of  all  sat  a  good  way  apart  from  the 
others  on  the  summit  of  a  knoll;  it  was  ensconced 
in  an  old  tea-box,  out  of  which  issued  its  head  and 
shoulders  in  a  blue  cloak  and  scarlet  hat.  O  if 
you  could  have  seen  its  dignity!  It  was  deliciously 
humorous:  and  this  little  piece  of  comic  self-satis- 
faction was  framed  in  wonderfully  by  the  hills  and 
the  sunlit  estuary.  We  saw  another  child  in  a 
cottage  garden.  She  had  been  sick,  it  seemed,  and 
was  taking  the  air  quietly  for  health's  sake.  Over 
her  pale  face,  she  had  decorated  herself  with  all 
available  flowers  and  weeds;  and  she  was  driving 
one  chair  as  a  horse,  sitting  in  another  by  way  of 
carriage.  We  cheered  her  as  we  passed,  and  she 
acknowledged  the  compliment  like  a  queen.  I  like 
children  better  every  day,  I  think,  and  most  other 
things  less.  John  Knox  goes  on,  and  a  horrible 
story  of  a  nurse  which  I  think  almost  too  cruel  to 
go  on  with:  I  wonder  why  my  stories  are  always  so 
nasty. ^  I  am  still  well,  and  in  good  spirits.  I  say, 
by  the  way,  have  you  any  means  of  finding  Madame 
Garschine's  address.    If  you  have,  communicate  with 

>  I  remember  nothing  of  either  the  title  or  the  tenor  of  this  story. 


i;^        LETTERS   OF   S  i  KVKNSON      [.874 

me.  I  fear  my  last  letter  has  been  too  late  to  catch 
her  at  Fr^nzensbad ;  and  so  I  shall  have  to  go  with- 
out my  visit  altogether,  which  would  vex  me. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Barmouth,  September  1874],  Tuesday 

I  WONDER  if  you  ever  read  Dickens'  Christmas 
books?  I  don't  know  that  I  would  recommend  you 
to  read  them,  because  they  are  too  much  perhaps. 
I  have  only  read  two  of  them  yet,  and  feel  so  good 
after  them  and  would  do  anything,  yes  and  shall 
do  anything,  to  make  it  a  little  better  for  people.  I 
wish  I  could  lose  no  time;  I  want  to  go  out  and  com- 
fort some  one;  I  shall  never  listen  to  the  nonsense 
they  tell  one  about  not  giving  money — I  shall  give 
money;  not  that  I  haven't  done  so  always,  but  I 
shall  do  it  with  a  high  hand  now. 

It  is  raining  here;  and  I  have  been  working  at 
John  Knox,  and  at  the  horrid  story  I  have  in  hand, 
and  walking  in  the  rain.  Do  you  know  this  story  of 
mine  is  horrible;  I  only  work  at  it  by  fits  and  starts, 
because  I  feel  as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  crime  against 
humanity — it  is  so  cruel. 

Wednesday. — I  saw  such  nice  children  again  to- 
day; one  little  fellow  alone  by  the  roadside,  putting 
a  stick  into  a  spout  of  water  and  singing  to  himself — 
so  wrapt  up  that  we  had  to  poke  him  with  our  um- 
brellas to  attract  his  attention;  and  again,  two  solid, 
fleshly,  grave,  double-chinned  burgomasters  in  black, 
with  black  hats  on  'em,  riding  together  in  what  they 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  179 

call,  I  think,  a  double  perambulator.  My  father  is 
such  fun  here.  He  is  always  skipping  about  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  speaking  to  all  the  girls,  and 
telling  them  God  knows  what  about  us  all.  My 
mother  and  I  are  the  old  people  who  sit  aloof,  receive 
him  as  a  sort  of  prodigal  when  he  comes  back  to  us, 
and  listen  indulgently  to  what  he  has  to  tell. 

Llandudno,  Thursday.— h.  cold  bleak  place  of 
stucco  villas  with  wide  streets  to  let  the  wind  in  at 
you.     A  beautiful  journey,  however,  coming  hither. 

Friday. — Seeley  has  taken  my  paper,  which  is,  as 
I  now  think,  not  to  beat  about  the  bush,  bad.  How- 
ever, there  are  pretty  things  in  it,  I  fancy;  we  shall 
see  what  you  shall  say. 

Sunday. — I  took  my  usual  walk  before  turning  in 
last  night,  and  dallied  over  it  a  little.  It  was  a  cool, 
dark,  solemn  night,  starry,  but  the  sky  charged 
with  big  black  clouds.  The  lights  in  house  windows 
you  could  see,  but  the  houses  themselves  were  lost 
in  the  general  blackness.  A  church  clock  struck 
eleven  as  I  went  past,  and  rather  startled  me.  The 
whiteness  of  the  road  was  all  I  had  to  go  by.  I 
heard  an  express  train  roaring  away  down  the  coast 
into  the  night,  and  dying  away  sharply  in  the  dis- 
tance; it  was  like  the  noise  of  an  enormous  rocket, 
or  a  shot  world,  one  would  fancy.  I  suppose  the 
darkness  made  me  a  little  fanciful;  but  when  at 
first  I  was  puzzled  by  this  great  sound  in  the  night, 
between  sea  and  hills,  I  thought  half  seriously  that 
it  might  be  a  world  broken  loose — this  world  to  wit. 
I  stood  for  I  suppose  five  seconds  with  this  looking- 
for  of  destruction  in  my  head,  not  exactly  frightened 


i8o       LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [.874 

but  put  out;  and  I  wanted  badly  not  to  be  over- 
whelmed where  I  was,  unless  I  could  cry  out  a  fare- 
well with  a  great  voice  over  the  ruin  and  make 
myself  heard.— Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

'John  Knox'  and  'J.  K.'  herein  mentioned  arc  the  two  papers 

on  John  Knox  and  his  Relations  with  Women,  first  printed  in  ?vla(  - 
millan's  Magazine  and  afterwards  in  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and 
Books. 

Swanslon,  Wednesday  [Autumn'],  1874 

I  HAVE  been  hard  at  work  all  yesterday,  and  be- 
sides had  to  write  a  long  letter  to  Bob,  so  I  found 
no  time  until  quite  late,  and  then  was  sleepy.  Last 
night  it  blew  a  fearful  gale;  I  was  kept  awake 
about  a  couple  of  hours,  and  could  not  get  to  sleep 
for  the  horror  of  the  wind's  noise;  the  whole  house 
shook;  and,  mind  you,  our  house  is  a  house,  a  great 
castle  of  jointed  stone  that  would  weigh  up  a  street 
of  English  houses;  so  that  when  it  quakes,  as  it  did 
last  night,  it  means  something.  But  the  quaking 
was  not  what  put  me  about;  it  was  the  horrible  howl 
of  the  wind  round  the  corner;  the  audible  haunting 
of  an  incarnate  anger  about  the  house;  the  evil 
spirit  that  was  abroad;  and,  above  all,  the  shudder- 
ing silent  pauses  when  the  storm's  heart  stands 
dreadfully  still  for  a  moment.  O  how  I  hate  a 
storm  at  night!  They  have  been  a  great  influence  in 
my  life,  I  am  sure;  for  I  can  remember  them  so  far 
back — long  before  T  was  six  at  least,  for  we  left  the 
house  in  which  I  remember  listening  to  them  times 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  181 

without  number  when  I  was  six.  And  in  those  days 
the  storm  had  for  me  a  perfect  impersonation,  as 
durable  and  unvarying  as  any  heathen  deity.  I 
always  heard  it,  as  a  horseman  riding  past  with  his 
cloak  about  his  head,  and  somehow  always  carried 
away,  and  riding  past  again,  and  being  baffled  yet 
once  more,  ad  infinitum,  all  night  long.  I  think  I 
wanted  him  to  get  past,  but  I  am  not  sure;  I  know 
only  that  I  had  some  interest  either  for  or  against 
in  the  matter;  and  I  used  to  lie  and  hold  my  breath, 
not  quite  frightened,  but  in  a  state  of  miserable 
exaltation. 

My  first  John  Knox  is  in  proof,  and  my  second  is 
on  the  anvil.  It  is  very  good  of  me  so  to  do;  for  I 
want  so  much  to  get  to  my  real  tour  and  my  sham 
tour,  the  real  tour  first;  it  is  always  working  in  my 
head,  and  if  I  can  only  turn  on  the  right  sort  of 
style  at  the  right  moment,  I  am  not  much  afraid  of 
it.  One  thing  bothers  me;  what  with  hammering 
at  this  J.  K.,  and  writing  necessary  letters,  and  tak- 
ing necessary  exercise  (that  even  not  enough,  the 
weather  is  so  repulsive  to  me,  cold  and  windy),  I 
find  I  have  no  time  for  reading  except  times  of 
fatigue,  when  I  wish  merely  to  relax  myself.  O — 
and  I  read  over  again  for  this  purpose  Flaubert's 
Tentation  de  St.  Antoine;  it  struck  me  a  good  deal 
at  first,  but  this  second  time  it  has  fetched  me  im- 
mensely. I  am  but  just  done  with  it,  so  you  will 
know  the  large  proportion  of  salt  to  take  with  my 
present  statement,  that  it's  the  finest  thing  I  ever 
read!  Of  course,  it  isn't  that,  it's  full  of  longueurs, 
and  is  not  quite  'redd  up,'  as  we  say  in  Scotland, 


i8z      LirrrKRS  of  stkvknson     [1874 

not  quite  articulated;   but  there  are  splendid  things 
in  it. 

I  say,  do  take  your  macaroni  with  oil:  do,  please. 
It's  beastly  with  butter. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs,  Sitwell 

Mr.  (later  Sir)  George  Grove  was  for  some  years  before  and  after 
this  date  the  eflitor  of  Macmillan's  Magazine  (but  the  true  monu- 
ment to  his  memory  is  of  course  his  Dictionary  of  Music).  After 
the  Knox  articles  no  more  contributions  from  R.  L.  S.  appeared  in 
this  magazine,  partly,  I  think,  because  Mr.  Alexander  Macmillan 
disapproved  of  his  essay  on  Burns  published  the  following  year. 
The  Portfolio  paper  here  mentioned  is  that  entitled  On  the  Enjoy- 
metit  of  Unpleasant  Places. 

[Swanslon,  Autumn  1874],  Thursday 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  have  another  letter  from 
Grove,  about  my  Jphn  Knox,  which  is  flattering  in 
its  way:  he  is  a  very  gushing  and  spontaneous  per- 
son. I  am  busy  with  another  Portfolio  paper  for 
which  I  can  find  no  name;  I  think  I  shall  require  to 
leave  it  without. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  get  to  London  on  my  way 
to  Poland,  but  I  must  try  to  manage  it  on  my  way 
back;  I  must  see  you  anyway,  before  I  tackle  this 
sad  winter  work,  just  to  get  new  heart.  As  it  is,  I 
am  as  jolly  as  three,  in  good  health,  fairish  working 
trim  and  on  good,  very  good,  terms  with  my  people. 

Look  here,  I  must  have  people  well.  If  they  will 
keep  well,  I  am  all  right:  if  they  won't— well  I'll 
do  as  well  as  I  can,  and  forgive  them,  and  try  to 
be  something  of  a  comfortable  thought  in  spite.  So 
with  that  cheerful  sentiment,  good-night  dear  friend 
and  good  health  to  you. 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  183 

Saturday. — Your  letter  to-day.  Thank  you.  It 
is  a  horrid  day,  outside.  You  talk  of  my  setting  to 
a  book,  as  if  I  could;  don't  you  know  that  things 
must  come  to  me?  I  can  do  but  little;  I  mostly 
wait  and  look  out.  I  am  struggling  with  a  Portfolio 
paper  just  now,  which  will  not  come  straight  some- 
how and  will  get  too  gushy;  but  a  little  patience  will 
get  it  out  of  the  kink  and  sober  it  down  I  hope.  I 
have  been  thinking  over  my  movements,  and  am  not 
sure  but  that  I  may  get  to  London  on  my  way  to 
Poland  after  all.  Hurrah!  But  we  must  not  halloo 
till  we  are  out  of  the  wood;  this  may  be  only  a 
clearing. 

God  help  us  all,  it  is  a  funny  world.  To  see 
people  skipping  all  round  us  with  their  eyes  sealed 
up  with  indifference,  knowing  nothing  of  the  earth 
or  man  or  woman,  going  automatically  to  offices  and 
saying  they  are  happy  or  unhappy  out  of  a  sense  of 
duty,  I  suppose,  surely  at  least  from  no  sense  of 
happiness  or  unhappiness,  unless  perhaps  they  have 
a  tooth  that  twinges,  is  it  not  like  a  bad  dream? 
Why  don't  they  stamp  their  foot  upon  the  ground 
and  awake?  There  is  the  moon  rising  in  the  east, 
and  there  is  a  person  with  their  heart  broken  and 
still  glad  and  conscious  of  the  world's  glory  up  to 
the  point  of  pain;  and  behold  they  know  nothing  of 
all  this!  I  should  like  to  kick  them  into  conscious- 
ness, for  damp  gingerbread  puppets  as  they  are. 
S.  C.  is  down  on  me  for  being  bitter;  who  can  help 
it  sometimes,  especially  after  they  have  slept  ill? 

I  am  going  to  have  a  lot  of  lunch  presently;  and 
then  I  shall  feel  all  right  again,  and  the  loneliness 


i84       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.874 

will  pass  away  as  often  before.  It  is  the  flesh  that 
is  weak.  Already  I  have  done  myself  all  the  good 
in  the  world  by  this  scribble,  and  feel  alive  again 
and  pretty  jolly. 

Sunday. — What  a  day!  ("old  and  dark  as  mid- 
winter. I  shall  send  with  this  two  new  photographs 
of  myself  for  your  opinion.  My  father  regards  this 
life  'as  a  shambling  sort  of  omnibus  which  is  taking 
him  to  his  hotel.'  Is  that  not  well  said  ?  It  came 
out  in  a  rather  pleasant  and  entirely  amicable  dis- 
cussion which  we  had  this  afternoon  on  a  walk. 
The  colouring  of  the  world,  to-day,  is  of  course 
hideous;  we  saw  only  one  pleasant  sight,  a  couple  of 
lovers  under  a  thorn-tree  by  the  wayside,  he  with 
his  arm  about  her  waist:  they  did  not  seem  to  find 
it  so  cold  as  we.  I  have  made  a  lot  of  progress 
to-day  with  my  Portfolio  paper.  I  think  some  of 
it  should  be  nice,  but  it  rambles  a  little;  I  like 
rambling,  if  the  country  be  pleasant;  don't  you? — 
Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[October  27,  1874],  Edinburgh,  Thursday 

It  is  cold,  but  very  sunshiny  and  dry;  I  wish  you 
were  here;  it  would  suit  you  and  it  doesn't  suit  me; 
if  we  could  change  ?  This  is  the  Fast  day — Thurs- 
day preceding  bi-annual  Holy  Sacrament  that  is — 
nobody  does  any  work,  they  go  to  Church  twice, 
they  read  nothing  secular  (except  the  newspapers, 
that  is  the  nuance  between  Fast  day  and  Sunday), 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  185 

they  eat  like  fighting-cocks.  Behold  how  good  a 
thing  it  is  and  becoming  well  to  fast  in  Scotland. 
I  am  progressing  with  John  Knox  and  Women  No.  2; 
I  shall  finish  it,  I  think,  in  a  fortnight  hence;  and 
then  I  shall  begin  to  enjoy  myself.  /.  K.  and  W. 
No.  2  is  not  uninteresting  however;  it  only  bores 
me  because  I  am  so  anxious  to  be  at  something  else 
which  I  like  better.  I  shall  perhaps  go  to  Church 
this  afternoon  from  a  sort  of  feeling  that  it  is  rather 
a  wholesome  thing  to  do  of  an  afternoon;  it  keeps 
one  from  work  and  it  lets  you  out  so  late  that  you 
cannot  weary  yourself  walking  and  so  spoil  your 
evening's  work. 

Friday. — I  got  your  letter  this  morning,  and 
whether  owing  to  that,  or  to  the  fact  that  I  had 
spent  the  evening  before  in  comparatively  riotous 
living,  I  managed  to  work  five  hours  and  a  half  well 
and  without  fatigue;  besides  reading  about  an  hour 
more  at  history.     This  is  a  thing  to  be  proud  of. 

We  have  had  lately  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
sunsets;  our  autumn  sunsets  here  are  always  ad- 
mirable in  colour.  To-night  there  was  just  a  little 
lake  of  tarnished  green  deepening  into  a  blood-orange 
at  the  margins,  framed  above  by  dark  clouds  and  be- 
low by  the  long  roof-line  of  the  Egyptian  buildings 
on  what  we  call  the  Mound,  the  statues  on  the  top 
(of  her  Britannic  Majesty  and  diverse  nondescript 
Sphinxes)  printing  themselves  off  black  against  the 
lit  space. 

Saturday. — It  has  been  colder  than  ever;  and  to- 
night there  is  a  truculent  wind  about  the  house, 
shaking  the  windows  and  making  a  hollow  inarticu- 


i86        LETTJCRS   OF   SIKVKNSON       [.874 

late  grumbling  in  the  chimney.  I  cannot  say  how 
much  I  hate  the  cold.  It  makes  my  scalp  so  tight 
across  my  head  and  gives  me  such  a  beastly  rheuma- 
tism about  my  shoulders,  and  wrinkles  and  stifTens 
my  face;  O  I  have  such  a  Schnsiicht  for  Mentone, 
where  the  sun  is  shining  and  the  air  still,  and  (a 
friend  writes  to  me)  people  are  complaining  of  the 
heat. 

Sunday. — I  was  chased  out  by  my  lamp  again  last 
night;  it  always  goes  out  when  I  feel  in  the  humour 
to  write  to  you.  To-day  I  have  been  to  Church, 
which  has  not  improved  my  temper  I  must  own. 
The  clergyman  did  his  best  to  make  me  hate  him, 
and  I  took  refuge  in  that  admirable  poem  the  Song 
of  Deborah  and  Barak;  I  should  like  to  make  a 
long  scroll  of  painting  (say  to  go  all  round  a  cornice) 
illustrative  of  this  poem;  with  the  people  seen  in  the 
distance  going  stealthily  on  footi)aths  while  the  great 
highways  go  vacant;  with  the  archers  besetting  the 
draw-wells;  with  the  princes  in  hiding  on  the  hills 
among  the  bleating  sheep-flocks;  with  the  overthrow 
of  Sisera,  the  stars  fighting  against  him  in  their 
courses  and  that  ancient  river,  the  river  Kishon, 
sweeping  him  away  in  anger;  with  his  mother  look- 
ing and  looking  down  the  long  road  in  the  red  sun- 
set, and  never  a  banner  and  never  a  spear-clump 
coming  into  sight,  and  her  women  with  white  faces 
round  her,  ready  with  lying  comfort.  To  say  noth- 
ing of  the  people  on  white  asses. 

O,  I  do  hate  this  damned  life  that  I  lead.  Work — 
work — work;  that's  all  right,  it's  amusing;  but  I 
want  women  about  me  and  I  want  pleasure.     John 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  187 

Knox  had  a  better  time  of  it  than  I,  with  his  godly 
females  all  leaving  their  husbands  to  follow  after 
him;  I  would  I  were  John  Knox;  I  hate  living  like 
a  hermit.  Write  me  a  nice  letter  if  ever  you  are  in 
the  humour  to  write  to  me,  and  it  doesn't  hurt  your 
head.     Good-bye. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  projected  visit  to  his  Russian  friend  in  Poland  did  not  come 
off,  and  shortly  after  the  preceding  letter  Stevenson  went  for  a  few 
days'  walking  tour  in  the  Chiltern  Hills  of  Buckinghamshire  as 
recorded  in  his  essay  An  Autumn  Effect.  He  then  came  on  for  a 
visit  to  London. 

[London,  November  1874] 

When  I  left  you  I  found  an  organ-grinder  in 
Russell  Square  playing  to  a  child;  and  the  simple 
fact  that  there  was  a  child  listening  to  him,  that 
he  was  giving  this  pleasure,  entitled  him,  according 
to  my  theory,  as  you  know,  to  some  money;  so  I  put 
some  coppers  on  the  ledge  of  his  organ,  without  so 
much  as  looking  at  him,  and  I  was  going  on  when 
a  woman  said  to  me:  'Yes  sir,  he  do  look  bad, 
don't  he  ?  scarcely  fit  like  to  be  working.'  And  then 
I  looked  at  the  man,  and  O!  he  was  so  ill,  so  yellow 
and  heavy-eyed  and  drooping.  I  did  not  like  to  go 
back  somehow,  and  so  I  gave  the  woman  a  shilling 
and  asked  her  to  give  it  to  him  for  me.  I  saw  her 
do  so  and  walked  on;  but  the  face  followed  me, 
and  so  when  I  had  got  to  the  end  of  the  division,  I 
turned  and  came  back  as  hard  as  I  could  and  filled 
his  hand  with  money — ten  to  thirteen  shillings,  I 
should  think.     I  was  sure  he  was  going  to  be.  ill, 


i88       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      (1874 

you  know,  and  he  was  a  young  man;  and  1  dare 
say  he  was  alone,  and  had  no  one  to  love  him. 

I  had  my  reward;  for  a  few  yards  farther  on,  here 
was  another  organ-grinder  playing  a  dance  tune, 
and  perhaps  a  dozen  children  all  dancing  merrily  to 
his  music,  singly,  and  by  twos  and  threes,  and  in 
pretty  little  figures  together.  Just  what  my  organ- 
grinder  in  my  story  wanted  to  have  happen  to  him! 
It  was  so  gay  and  pleasant  in  the  twilight  under  the 
street  lamp. 

I  am  very  well,  have  eaten  well  and  am  so  sleepy 
I  can  write  no  more.  This  I  write  to  let  you  know 
I  am  no  worse;  all  the  better. — Ever  your  faithful 
friend,  d    t     c 

K.    Li.    o. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh,  November  1874],  Sunday 

I  WAS  never  more  sorry  to  leave  you,  but  I  never 
left  you  with  a  better  heart,  than  last  night.  I  had 
a  long  journey  and  a  cold  one;  but  never  was  sick 
nor  sorry  the  whole  way.  It  was  a  long  one  because 
when  we  got  to  Berwick,  we  had  to  go  round  through 
the  hills  by  Kelso,  as  there  was  a  block  on  the  main 
line.  I  knew  nothing  of  this,  and  you  may  imagine 
my  bewilderment  when  I  came  to  myself,  the  train 
standing  and  whistling  dismally  in  the  black  morn- 
ing, before  a  little  vacant  half-lit  station,  with  a  name 
up  that  I  had  never  heard  before.  My  fellow- 
traveller  woke  up  and  wanted  to  know  what  was 
wrong.  'O,  it's  nothing,'  I  said, ''nothing  at  all,  it's 
an  evil  dream.'  However  we  had  the  thing  ex- 
])laincd  to  us  at  the  end  of  ends,  and  trailed  on  in 


AET.  24]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  189 

the  dark  among  the  snowy  hills,  stopping  every  now 
and  again  and  whistling  in  an  appealing  kind  of 
way,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  God  knows  where  we  are, 
for  God's  sake  don't  run  into  us';  until  at  last  we 
came  to  a  dead  standstill,  and  remained  so  for  per- 
haps an  hour  and  a  quarter.  This  wakened  us  up 
for  a  little;  and  we  managed,  at  last,  to  attract  the 
attention  of  one  of  the  officials  whom  we  could  see 
picking  their  way  about  the  snow  with  lanterns. 
This  man  (very  wide  awake,  and  hale,  and  lusty) 
informed  us  we  were  waiting  for  another  conductor, 
as  our  own  guard  did  not  know  the  line.  'Where 
is  the  new  guard  coming  from?'  we  ask.  'O,  close 
by;  only — he,  he — he  was  married  last  night.'  And 
immediately  we  heard  much  hoarse  laughter  in 
the  dark  about  us;  and  the  moving  lanterns  were 
shaken  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  a  wind.  This  poor  con- 
ductor! However,  I  recomposed  myself  for  slumber, 
and  did  not  re-awake  much  before  Edinburgh,  where 
I  was  discharged  three  hours  too  late  and  found  my 
father  waiting  for  me  in  the  snow,  with  a  very  long 
face. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

I  forget  what  the  Japanese  prints  were  which  I  had  been  sending 
to  Stevenson  at  his  wish,  but  they  sound  like  specimens  of  Hiro- 
shige  and  Kuniyoshi.  The  taste  for  these  things  was  then  quite 
new  and  had  laid  hold  on  him  strongly. 

[Edinburgh,  November  1874] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Thank  you,  and   God  bless 
you  for  ever:  this  is  a  far  better  lot  than  the  last;  I 


I90        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      (.874 

have  chosen  four  complete  sets  out  of  it  for  setting, 
quite  admirable:  the  others  are  not  (juite  one's 
taste;  I  lind  the  colour  far  from  always  being  agree- 
able, it  is  a  great  toss  up.  They  have  sent  me 
duplicates  of  first  a  mad  little  scene  with  a  white 
horse,  a  red  monarch  and  a  blue  arm  of  the  sea  in 
it;  and  second  of  a  night  scene  with  water,  flowers 
and  a  black  and  white  umbrella  and  a  wonderful 
grey  distance  and  a  wonderful  general  effect — one 
of  my  best  in  fact.  Do  not  now  force  yourself  to 
make  any  more  purchases  for  me;  but  if  ever  you 
see  a  thing  you  would  like  to  lecture  off,  remember 
I  am  the  person  who  is  ready  to  buy  it  and  let  you 
have  the  use  of  it:   keep  this  in  view  always. 

I  am  working  very  hard  (for  me)  and  am  very 
happy  over  my  picters. 

Goodbye,  mon  vieux. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

P.S. — In  fact  if  ever  you  see  anything  excep- 
tionally fine,  purchase  for  R.  L.  S.  I  owe  you  lots 
of  money  besides  this,  don't  I?  John  Knox  is  red 
and  sparkling  on  the  anvil  and  the  hammer  goes 

about  six  hours  on  him.  -d    t     c 

is..  L,.  o. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

During  his  days  in  London  Stevenson  had  gone  with  Mrs.  Sitwell 
to  revisit  the  Elgin  marbles,  and  had  carried  off  photographs  of 
them  to  put  up  in  his  room  at  Edinburgh.  King  Matthias's  Hunt- 
ing Horn  has  perished  like  so  many  other  stories  of  this  time. 

[Edinburgh,  Nm'etnber  1874],  Tuesday 

Well,  I've  got  some  women  now,  and  they're 
better   than  nothing.     Three,   without   heads,   who 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  191 

have  been  away  getting  framed.  And  you  know 
they  are  more  to  me,  after  a  fashion,  than  they  can 
be  to  you,  because,  after  a  fashion  also,  they  are 
women.  I  have  come  now  to  think  the  sitting  fig- 
ure in  spite  of  its  beautiful  drapery  rather  a  blem- 
ish, rather  an  interruption  to  the  sentiment.  The 
two  others  are  better  than  one  has  ever  dreamed; 
I  think  these  two  women  are  the  only  things  in  the 
world  that  have  been  better  than,  in  Bible  phrase, 
it  had  entered  into  my  heart  to  conceive.  Who 
made  them?  Was  it  Pheidias?  or  do  they  not 
know?  It  is  wonderful  what  company  they  are — 
noble  company.  And  then  I  have  now  three  Jap- 
anese pictures  that  are  after  my  own  heart,  and  I 
get  up  from  time  to  time  and  turn  a  bit  of  favourite 
colour  over  and  over,  roll  it  under  my  tongue,  savour 
it  till  it  gets  all  through  me;  and  then  back  to  my 
chair  and  to  work. 

This  afternoon  about  six  there  was  a  small  orange 
moon,  lost  in  a  great  world  of  blue  evening.  A  few 
leafless  boughs,  and  a  bit  of  garden  railing,  criss- 
cross its  face;  and  below  it  there  was  blueness  and 
the  spread  lights  of  Leith,  lost  in  blue  haze.  To 
the  east,  the  town,  also  subdued  to  the  same  blue, 
piled  itself  up,  with  here  and  there  a  lit  window, 
until  it  could  print  off  its  outline  against  a  faint 
patch  of  green  and  russet  that  remained  behind  the 
sunset. 

I  must  tell  you  about  my  way  of  life,  which  is 
regular  to  a  degree.  Breakfast  8.30;  during  break- 
fast and  my  smoke  afterwards  till  ten,  when  I  begin 
work,  I  read  Reformation;    from  ten,  I  work  until 


192        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.874 

about  a  quarter  to  one;  from  one  until  two,  I  lunch 
and  read  a  book  on  Schopenhauer  or  one  on  Posi- 
tivism; two  to  three  work,  three  to  six  anything;  if 
I  am  in  before  six,  I  read  about  Japan:  six,  dinner 
and  a  pipe  with  my  father  and  coffee  until  7.30; 
7.30  to  9.30,  work;  after  that  either  supper  and  a 
pipe  at  home,  or  out  to  Simpson's  or  Baxter's:  bed 
between  eleven  and  twelve. 

Wednesday. — Two  good  things  have  arrived  to 
me  to-day:  your  letter  for  one.  and  the  end  of  John 
K?iox  for  another.  I  cannot  write  English  because 
I  have  been  speaking  French  all  evening  with  some 
French  people  of  my  knowledge.  It's  a  sad  thing 
the  state  I  get  into,  when  I  cannot  remember  Eng- 
lish and  yet  do  not  know  French!  And  it  is  worse 
when  it  is  complicated,  as  at  present,  with  a  pen 
that  will  not  write!  If  you  knew  how  I  have  to 
paint  and  how  I  have  to  manoeuvre  to  get  the  stuff 
legible  at  all. 

Thursday. — I  have  said  the  Fates  are  only  women 
after  a  fashion;  and  that  is  one  of  the  strangest 
things  about  them.  They  are  wonderfully  womanly 
— they  are  more  womanly  than  any  woman — and 
those  girt  draperies  are  drawn  over  a  wonderful 
greatness  of  body  instinct  with  sex;  I  do  not  see  a 
line  in  them  that  could  be  a  line  in  a  man.  And 
yet,  when  all  is  said,  they  are  not  women  for  us; 
they  are  of  another  race,  immortal,  separate;  one 
has  no  wish  to  look  at  them  with  love,  only  with  a 
sort  of  lowly  adoration,  physical,  but  wanting  what 
is  the  soul  of  all  love,  whether  admitted  to  oneself 
or  not,  hope;   in  a  word  'the  desire  of  the  moth  for 


AKT.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  193 

the  star.'  O  great  white  stars  of  eternal  marble,  O 
shapely,  colossal  women,  and  yet  not  women.  It  is 
not  love  that  we  seek  from  theni,  we  do  not  desire 
to  see  their  great  eyes  troubled  with  our  passions, 
or  the  great  impassive  members  contorted  by  any 
hope  or  pain  or  pleasure;  only  now  and  again,  to 
be  conscious  that  they  exist,  to  have  knowledge  of 
them  far  off  in  cloudland  or  feel  their  steady  eyes 
shining,  like  quiet  watchful  stars,  above  the  turmoil 
of  the  earth. 

I  write  so  ill;  so  cheap  and  miserable  and  penny- 
a-linerish  is  this  John  Knox  that  I  have  just  sent, 
that  I  am  low.  Only  I  keep  my  heart  up  by  think- 
ing of  you.  And  if  all  goes  to  the  worst,  shall  I 
not  be  able  to  lay  my  head  on  the  great  knees  of 
the  middle  Fate — O  these  great  knees — I  know  all 
Baudelaire  meant  now  with  his  geante — to  lay  my 
head  on  her  great  knees  and  go  to  sleep. 

Friday. — I  have  finished  The  Story  of  King  Mat- 
thias^ Hunting  Horn,  whereof  I  spoke  to  you,  and 
I  think  it  should  be  good.  It  excites  me  like  wine, 
or  fire,  or  death,  or  love,  or  something;  nothing  of 
my  own  writing  ever  excited  me  so  much;  it  does 
seem  to  me  so  weird  and  fantastic. 

Saturday. — I  know  now  that  there  is  a  more  subtle 
and  dangerous  sort  of  selfishness  in  habit  than  there 
ever  can  be  in  disorder.  I  never  ceased  to  be  gen- 
erous when  I  was  most  deregle;  now  when  I  am 
beginning  to  settle  into  habits,  I  see  the  danger  in 
front  of  me — one  might  cease  to  be  generous  and 
grow  hard  and  sordid  in  time  and  trouble.  How- 
ever, thank  God  it  is  life  I  want,  and  nothing  post- 


19+        LKTTKRS   OF  S'lKVKNSON      [.874 

humous,  and  for  two  good  emotions  I  would  sacri- 
fice a  thousand  years  of  fame.  Moreover  I  know 
so  well  that  I  shall  never  be  much  as  a  writer  that 
I  am  not  very  soreJy  tempted. 

My  only  chance  is  in  my  stories;  and  so  you  will 
forgive  mc  if  I  postpone  everything  else  to  copy  out 
King  Matthias;  I  have  learned  by  experience  that 
a  story  should  be  copied  out  and  finished  fairly 
off  at  the  first  heat  if  ever.  I  am  even  thinking 
of  finishing  up  half-a-dozen  perhaps  and  trying 
the  publishers?  what  do  you  say?  Give  me  your 
advice  ? 

Sunday. — Good-bye.  A  long  story  to  tell  but  no 
time  to  tell  it:  well  and  happy.  Adieu. — Ever  your 
faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Edinburgh  [Sunday,  November  1874] 

Here  is  my  long  story:  yesterday  night,  after 
having  supped,  I  grew  so  restless  that  I  was  obliged 
to  go  out  in  search  of  some  excitement.  There  was 
a  half-moon  lying  over  on  its  back,  and  incredibly 
bright  in  the  midst  of  a  faint  grey  sky  set  with  faint 
stars:  a  very  inartistic  moon,  that  would  have 
damned  a  picture. 

At  the  most  populous  place  of  the  city  I  found  a 
little  boy,  three  years  old  perhaps,  half  frantic  with 
terror,  and  crying  to  every  one  for  his  'Mammy.' 
This  was  about  eleven,  mark  you.  People  stopped 
and  spoke  to  him,  and  then  went  on,  leaving  him 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  195 

more  frightened  than  before.  But  I  and  a  good- 
humoured  mechanic  came  up  together;  and  I  in- 
stantly developed  a  latent  faculty  for  setting  the 
hearts  of  children  at  rest.  Master  Tommy  Murphy 
(such  was  his  name)  soon  stopped  crying,  and  allowed 
me  to  take  him  up  and  carry  him;  and  the  mechanic 
and  I  trudged  away  along  Princes  Street  to  find  his 
parents.  I  was  soon  so  tired  that  I  had  to  ask  the 
mechanic  to  carry  the  bairn;  and  you  should  have 
seen  the  puzzled  contempt  with  which  he  looked 
at  me,  for  knocking  in  so  soon.  He  was  a  good 
fellow,  however,  although  very  impracticable  and 
sentimental;  and  he  soon  bethought  him  that  Master 
Murphy  might  catch  cold  after  his  excitement,  so 
he  wrapped  him  up  in  my  greatcoat.  'Tobauga 
(Tobago)  Street'  was  the  address  he  gave  us;  and 
we  deposited  him  in  a  little  grocer's  shop  and  went 
through  all  the  houses  in  the  street  without  being 
able  to  find  any  one  of  the  name  of  Murphy,  Then 
I  set  off  to  the  head  police  office,  leaving  my  great- 
coat in  pawn  about  Master  Murphy's  person.  As 
I  went  down  one  of  the  lowest  streets  in  the  town, 
I  saw  a  little  bit  of  fife  that  struck  me.  It  was  now 
half-past  twelve,  a  little  shop  stood  still  half-open, 
and  a  boy  of  four  or  five  years  old  was  walking  up 
and  down  before  it  imitating  cockcrow.  He  was 
the  only  living  creature  within  sight. 

At  the  police  offices  no  word  of  Master  Murphy's 
parents;  so  I  went  back  empty-handed.  The  good 
groceress,  who  had  kept  her  shop  open  all  this 
time,  could  keep  the  child  no  longer;  her  father, 
bad  with  bronchitis,  said  he  must  forth.     So  I  got 


196       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.874 

a  large  scone  with  currants  in  it,  wrapped  my  coat 
about  Tommy,  got  him  up  on  my  arm,  and  away 
to  the  police  office  with  him;    not  very  easy  in  my 
mind,  for  the  poor  child,  young  as  he  was— he  could 
scarce  speak— was  full  of  terror  for  the  'office,'  as 
he  called   it.     He   was  now  very  grave  and  quiet 
and  communicative  with  me;  told  me  how  his  father 
thrashed  him,  and  divers  household  matters.     When- 
ever he  saw  a  woman  on  our  way  he  looked  after 
her  over  my  shoulder  and  then  gave  his  judgment: 
'That's  no  her;  adding  sometimes,  'She  has  a  wean 
wi'  her.'     Meantime  I  was  telling  him  how  I  was 
going  to  take  him  to  a  gentleman  who  would  find 
out  his  mother  for  him  quicker  than  ever  I  could, 
and  how  he  must  not  be  afraid  of  him,  but  be  brave, 
as  he  had  been  with  me.     We  had  just  arrived  at 
our  destination— we   were   just   under   the   lamp- 
when  he  looked  me  in  the  face  and  said  appealingly, 
'He'll  no  put  me   in   the  ofhce?'     And  I   had  to 
assure  him  that  he  would  not,  even  as  I  pushed 
open  the  door  and  took  him  in. 

The  sergeant  was  very  nice,  and  I  got  Tommy 
comfortably  seated  on  a  bench,  and  spirited  him  up 
with  good  words  and  the  scone  with  the  currants  in  it; 
and  then,  telling  him  I  was  just  going  out  to  look 
for  Mammy,  I  got  my  greatcoat  and  slipped  away. 
Poor  little  boy!  he  was  not  called  for,  I  learn, 
until  ten  this  morning.  This  is  very  ill  written,  and 
I've  missed  half  that  was  picturesque  in  it;  but  to 
say  truth,  I  am  very  tired  and  sleepy:  it  was  two 
before  I  got  to  bed.  However,  you  see,  I  had  my 
c:.vitcment. 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  197 

Monday. — I. have  written  nothing  all  morning;  I 
cannot  settle  to  it.     Yes— I  will  though. 

10.45.— And   I   did.     I   want   to   say   something 
more  to  you  about  the  three  women.     I  wonder  so 
much  why  they  should  have  been  women,  and  halt 
between  two  opinions  in  the  matter.     Sometimes  I 
think  it  is  because  they  were  made  by  a  man  for 
men;   sometimes,  again,  I  think  there  is  an  abstract 
reason  for  it,  and  there  is  something  more  substantive 
about  a  woman  than  ever  there  can  be  about  a  man. 
I  can  conceive  a  great  mythical  woman,  living  alone 
among  inaccessible  mountain-tops  or  in  some  lost 
island  in  the  pagan  seas,  and  ask  no  more.     Whereas 
if  I  hear  of  a  Hercules,  I  ask  after  lole  or  Dejanira. 
I  cannot  think  him  a  man  without  women.     But  I 
can  think  of  these  three  deep-breasted  women,  liv- 
ing  out  all   their  days   on  remote   hilltops,   seeing 
the  white  dawn  and  the  purple  even,  and  the  world 
outspread  before  them  for  ever,  and  no  more  to 
them  for  ever  than  a  sight  of  the  eyes,  a  hearing 
of  the  ears,   a   far-away  interest  of  the   inflexible 
heart,  not  pausing,  not  pitying,  but  austere  with  a 
holy  austerity,  rigid  with  a  calm  and  passionless  rigid- 
ity; and  I  find  them  none  the  less  women  to  the  end. 
And  think,  if  one  could  love  a  woman  like  that 
once,  see  her  once  grow  pale  with  passion,  and  once 
wring  your  lips  out  upon  hers,  would  it  not  be  a  small 
thing  to  die?     Not  that  there  is  not  a  passion  of  a 
quite  other  sort,  much  less  epic,  far  more  dramatic 
and  intimate,  that  comes  out  of  the  very  frailty  of 
perishable  women;   out  of  the  lines  of  suffering  that 
we  see  written  about  their  eves,  and  that  we  may 


tqS        LP:TTERS   of  STKVKNSON       [..S74 

wipe  out  if  it  were  but  for  a  moment;  out  of  the 
thin  hands,  wrought  and  tempered  in  agony  to  a 
fmeness  of  perception,  that  the  indifferent  or  the 
merely  happy  cannot  know;  out  of  the  tragedy 
that  hes  about  such  a  love,  and  the  pathetic  incom- 
pleteness. This  is  another  thing,  and  perhaps  it  is 
a  higher.  1  look  over  my  shoulder  at  the  three 
great  headless  Madonnas,  and  they  look  back  at 
me  and  do  not  move;  see  me,  and  through  and 
over  me,  the  foul  life  of  the  city  dying  to  its  embers 
already  as  the  night  draws  on;  and  over  miles  and 
miles  of  silent  country,  set  here  and  there  with  lit 
towns,  thundered  through  here  and  there  wn'th  night 
expresses  scattering  fire  and  smoke;  and  away  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  the  furthest  star,  and  the 
blank  regions  of  nothing;  and  they  are  not  moved. 
My  quiet,  great-kneed,  deep-breasted,  well-draped 
ladies  of  Necessity,  I  give  my  heart  to  you! 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh]  December  23,  1874 

Monday. — I  have  come  from  a  concert,  and  the 
concert  was  rather  a  disappointment.  Not  so  my 
afternoon  skating — Duddingston,  our  big  loch,  is 
bearing;  and  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  it  this 
afternoon,  covered  with  people,  in  thin  driving  snow 
flurries,  the  big  hill  grim  and  white  and  alpine  over- 
head in  the  thick  air,  and  the  road  up  the  gorge, 
as  it  were  into  the  heart  of  it,  dotted  black  with 
traffic.  Moreover,  I  can  skate  a  little  bit;  and  what 
one  can  do  is  always  pleasant  to  do. 


AET.  24]  MRS.   SITWELL  199 

Tuesday. — I  got  your  letter  to-day,  and  was  so  glad 
thereof.  It  was  of  good  omen  to  me  also.  I  worked 
from  ten  to  one  (my  classes  are  suspended  now  for 
Xmas  holidays),  and  wrote  four  or  five  Portfolio 
pages  of  my  Buckinghamshire  affair.  Then  I  went 
to  Duddingston,  and  skated  all  afternoon.  If  you 
had  seen  the  moon  rising,  a  perfect  sphere  of  smoky 
gold,  in  the  dark  air  above  the  trees,  and  the 
white  loch  thick  with  skaters,  and  the  great  hill, 
snow-sprinkled,  overhead!  It  was  a  sight  for  a 
king. 

Wednesday. — I  stayed  on  Duddingston  to-day  till 
after  nightfall.  The  little  booths  that  hucksters  set 
up  round  the  edge  were  marked  each  one  by  its  little 
lamp.  There  were  some  fires  too;  and  the  light, 
and  the  shadows  of  the  people  who  stood  round  them 
to  warm  themselves,  made  a  strange  pattern  all 
round  on  the  snow-covered  ice.  A  few  people  with 
torches  began  to  travel  up  and  down  the  ice,  a  lit 
circle  travelling  along  with  them  over  the  snow.  A 
gigantic  moon  rose,  meanwhile,  over  the  trees  and 
the  kirk  on  the  promontory,  among  perturbed  and 
vacillating  clouds. 

The  walk  home  was  very  solemn  and  strange. 
Once,  through  a  broken  gorge,  we  had  a  glimpse  of 
a  little  space  of  mackerel  sky,  moon-litten,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hill;  the  broken  ridges  standing 
grey  and  spectral  between;  and  the  hilltop  over  all, 
snow-white,  and  strangely  magnified  in  size. 

This  must  go  to  you  to-morrow,  so  that  you  may 
read  it  on  Christmas  Day  for  company.  I  hope  it 
may  be  good  company  to  you. 


200       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      (1875 

Thursday. — Outside,  it  snows  thick  and  steadily. 
The  gardens  before  our  house  are  now  a  wonderful 
fairy  forest.  And  O,  this  whiteness  of  things,  how 
I  love  it,  how  it  sends  the  blood  about  my  body! 
Maurice  de  Gucrin  hated  snow;  what  a  fool  he  must 
have  been!  Somebody  tried  to  put  me  out  of  con- 
ceit with  it  by  saying  that  people  were  lost  in  it. 
As  if  people  don't  get  lost  in  love,  too,  and  die  of 
devotion  to  art;  as  if  everything  worth  wej-e  not  an 
occasion  to  some  people's  end. 

What  a  wintry  letter  this  is!  Only  I  think  it  is 
winter  seen  from  the  inside  of  a  warm  greatcoat. 
And  there  is,  at  least,  a  warm  heart  about  it  some- 
where. Do  you  know,  what  they  say  in  Xmas  stories 
is  true.  I  think  one  loves  their  friends  more  dearly 
at  this  season. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  Portfolio  article  here  mentioned  \%  An  Autumn  Effect  (see 
Essays  of  Travel).  The  Italian  story  so  delightedly  begun  was  by 
and  by  condemned  and  destroyed  like  all  the  others  of  this  time. 

[Edinburgh,  January  1875],  Monday 

Have  come  from  a  concert.  Sinico  sang,  tant 
Men  que  nml,  'Ah  perfido  spergiuro!';  and  then  we 
had  the  Eroica  symphony  (No.  3).  I  can,  and  need, 
say  no  more;  I  am  rapt  out  of  earth  by  it;  Beethoven 
is  certainly  the  greatest  man  the  world  has  yet  pro- 
duced. I  wonder,  is  there  anything  so  superb — I 
can  find  no  word  for  it  more  specific  than  superb — 
all  I  know  is  that  all  my  knowledge  is  transcended. 


AET.  25]  MRS.   SITWELL  201 

I  finished  to-day  and  sent  off  (and  a  mighty  mean 
detail  it  is,  to  set  down  after  Beethoven's  grand  pas- 
sion) my  Portfoho  article  about  Buckinghamshire. 
In  its  own  way  I  believe  it  to  be  a  good  thing;  and 
I  hope  you  will  find  something  in  it  to  like;  it  touches, 
in  a  dry  enough  manner,  upon  most  things  under 
heaven,  and  if  you  like  me,  I  think  you  ought  to 
like  this  intellectual — no,  I  withdraw  the  word — this 
artistic  dog  of  mine.  Thaw — thaw — thaw,  up  here; 
and  farewell  skating,  and  farewell  the  clear  dry  air 
and  the  wide,  bright,  white  snow-surface,  and  all  that 
was  so  pleasant  in  the  past. 

Wednesday. — Yesterday  I  wasn't  well  and  to-night 
I  have  been  ever  so  busy.  There  came  a  note 
from  the  Academy,  sent  by  John  H.  Ingram,  the 
editor  of  the  edition  of  Poe's  works  I  have  been  re- 
viewing, challenging  me  to  find  any  more  faults.  I 
have  found  nearly  sixty;  so  I  may  be  happy;  but 
that  makes  me  none  the  less  sleepy;  so  I  must  go  to 
bed. 

Friday. — I  am  awfully  out  of  the  humour  to  write; 
I  am  very  inert  although  quite  happy;  I  am  informed 
by  those  who  are  more  expert  that  I  am  bilious. 
Bien;  let  it  be  so;  I  am  still  content;  and  though  I 
can  do  no  original  work,  I  get  forward  making  notes 
for  my  Knox  at  a  good  trot. 

Saturday. — I  am  so  happy.  I  am  no  longer  here  in 
Edinburgh.  I  have  been  all  yesterday  evening  and 
this  forenoon  in  Italy,  four  hundred  years  ago,  with 
one  Sannazzaro,  sculptor,  painter,  poet,  etc.,  and  one 
Ippolita,  a  beautiful  Duchess.  O  I  like  it  badly!  I 
wish  you  could  hear  it  at  once;  or  rather  I  wish  you 


202        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.875 

could  see  it  immediately  in  beautiful  type  on  such  a 
page  as  it  ought  to  be,  in  my  first  little  volume  of 
stories.  What  a  change  this  is  from  collecting  dull 
notes  for  John  Knox,  as  I  have  been  all  the  early 
part  of  the  week— the  ditTerence  between  life  and 
death.— I  am  quite  well  again  and  in  such  happy 
spirits,  as  who  would  not  be,  having  spent  so  much 
of  his  time  at  that  convent  on  the  hills  with  these 
sweet  people.  Vous  verrez,  and  if  you  don't  like 
this  story— well,  I  give  it  up  if  you  don't  like  it. 
Not  but  what  there's  a  long  way  to  travel  yet;  I 
am  no  farther  than  the  threshold;  I  have  only  set 
the  men,  and  the  game  has  still  to  be  played,  and  a 
lot  of  dim  notions  must  become  definite  and  shapely, 
and  a  deal  be  clear  to  me  that  is  anything  but  clear 
as  yet.  The  story  shall  be  called,  I  think,  When  the 
Devil  was  well,  in  allusion  to  the  old  proverb. 

Good-bye. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh  [January  1875]. 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,— I  have  worked  too  hard;  I 
have  given  myself  one  day  of  rest,  and  that  was  not 
enough:  so  I  am  giving  myself  another.  I  shall  go 
to  bed  again  likewise  so  soon  as  this  is  done,  and 
slumber  most  potently. 

9  P.M. — Slept  all  afternoon  like  a  lamb. 

About  my  coming  south,  I  think  the  still  small 
unanswerable  voice  of  coins  will  make  it  impossible 
until  the  session  is  over  (end  of  March);    but  for 


AET.  25]  MRS.   SITWELL  203 

all  that,  I  think  I  shall  hold  out  jolly.  I  do  not 
want  you  to  come  and  bother  yourself;  indeed,  it 
is  still  not  quite  certain  whether  my  father  will  be 
quite  fit  for  you,  although  I  have  now  no  fear  of  that 
really.  Now  don't  take  up  this  wrongly;  I  wish 
you  could  come;  and  I  do  not  know  anything  that 
would  make  me  happier,  but  I  see  that  it  is  wrong 
to  expect  it,  and  so  I  resign  myself:  some  time 
after.  I  offered  Appleton  a  series  of  papers  on  the 
modern  French  school — the  Parnassiens,  I  think 
they  call  them — de  Banville,  Coppee,  Soulary,  and 
Sully  Prudhomme.  But  he  has  not  deigned  to  an- 
swer my  letter. 

I  shall  have  another  Portfolio  paper  so  soon  as  I 
am  done  with  this  story,  that  has  played  me  out; 
the  story  is  to  be  called  When  the  Devil  was  well: 
scene,  Italy,  Renaissance;  colour,  purely  imaginary 
of  course,  my  own  unregenerate  idea  of  what  Italy 
then  was.  O,  when  shall  I  find  the  story  of  my 
dreams,  that  shall  never  halt  nor  wander  nor  step 
aside,  but  go  ever  before  its  face,  and  ever  swifter 
and  louder,  until  the  pit  receives  it,  roaring?  The 
Portfolio  paper  will  be  about  Scotland  and  England. 
— Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh,  January  1875] 

I  WISH  I  could  write  better  letters  to  you.  Mine 
must  be  very  dull.  I  must  try  to  give  you  news. 
Well,  I  was  at  the  annual  dinner  of  my  old  Academy 


204        LKTTKRS  OF  STEVKNSON      [.875 


schoolfellows  last  nij^ht.  We  sat  down  ten,  out  of 
seventy-two!  The  others  are  scattered  all  over 
the  places  of  the  earth,  some  in  San  Francisco,  some 
in  New  Zealand,  some  in  India,  one  in  the  back- 
woods— it  gave  one  a  wide  look  over  the  world  to 
hear  them  talk  so.  I  read  them  some  verses.  It  is 
great  fun;  I  always  read  verses,  and  in  the  vinous 
enthusiasm  of  the  moment  they  always  propose  to 
have  them  printed;  Ce  qui  ti'arrive  jamais  dii  reste: 
in  the  morning,  they  are  more  calm. 

Sunday.— Ji  occurs  to  me  that  one  reason  why 
there  is  no  news  in  my  letters  is  because  there  is  so 
little  in  my  life.  I  always  tell  you  of  my  concerts; 
I  was  at  another  yesterday  afternoon:  a  recital  of 
Halle  and  Xorman  Neruda.  I  went  in  the  evening 
to  the  pantomime  with  the  Mackintoshes — cousins  of 
mine.  Their  little  boy,  aged  four,  was  there  for  the 
first  time.  To  see  him  with  his  eyes  fixed  and  open 
like  saucers,  and  never  varying  his  expression  save 
in  so  far  as  he  might  sometimes  open  his  mouth  a 
little  wider,  was  worth  the  money.  He  laughed 
only  once — when  the  giant's  dwarf  fed  his  master 
as  though  he  were  a  child.  Coming  home,  he  was 
much  interested  as  to  who  made  the  fairies,  and 
wanted  to  know  if  they  were  like  berries.  I  should 
like  to  know  how  much  this  question  was  due  to 
the  idea  of  their  coming  up  from  under  the  stage, 
and  how  much  to  a  vague  idea  of  rhyme.  When 
he  was  told  that  they  were  not  like  berries,  he  then 
asked  if  they  had  not  been  flowers  before  they  were 
fairies.  It  was  a  good  deal  in  the  vein  of  Herbert 
Spencer's  primitive  man  all  this. 


AET.  25]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  205 

I  am  pretty  well  but  have  not  got  back  to  work 
much  since  Tuesday.  I  work  far  too  hard  at  the 
story;  but  I  wish  I  had  finished  it  before  I  stopped 
as  I  feel  somewhat  out  of  the  swing  now.— Ever 
your  faithful  ^^^^^^  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

Another  of  the  literary  projects  which  came  to  naught,  no  one  of 
the  stories  mentioned  having  turned  out  according  to  Stevenson's 
dream  and  desire  at  its  first  conception,  or  even  having  been  pre- 
served for  use  afterwards  as  the  foundation  of  riper  work.  '  Cly tie ' 
is  of  course  the  famous  Roman  bust  from  the  Townley  collection 
in  the  British  Museum. 

[Edinburgh,  January  1875] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Thanks  for  your  letter,  I  too 
am  in  such  a  state  of  business  that  I  know  not 
when  to  find  the  time  to  write.  Look  here — Seeley 
does  not  seem  to  me  to  have  put  that  paper  of  mine 
in  this  month;  so  I  remain  unable  to  pay  you; 
which  is  a  sad  pity  and  must  be  forgiven  me. 

What  am  I  doing?  Well  I  wrote  my  second 
John  Knox,  which  is  not  a  bad  piece  of  work  for 
me;  begun  and  finished  ready  for  press  in  nine 
days.  Then  I  have  since  written  a  story  called  King 
Matthias's  Hunting  Horn,  and  I  am  engaged  in 
finishing  another  called  The  Two  Falconers  of  Cairn- 
stane.  I  find  my  stories  affect  me  rather  more  per- 
haps than  is  wholesome.  I  have  only  been  two  hours 
at  work  to-day,  and  yet  I  have  been  crying  and  am 
shaking  badly,  as  you  can  see  in  my  handwriting, 
and  my  back  is  a  bit  bad.  They  give  me  pleasure 
though,  quite  worth  all  results.  However  I  shall 
work  no  more  to-day. 


2o6        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.875 

I  am  to  get  £.1000  when  I  pass  Advocate,  it  seems; 
which  is  good. 

O  I  say,  will  you  kindly  tell  me  all  about  the  bust 
of  Clytie. 

Then  I  had  the  wisdom  to  stop  and  look  over 
Japanese  picture  books  until  lunch  time. 

Well,  tell  me  about  Clytie,  how  old  is  it,  who  did 
it,  what's  it  about,  etc.  Send  it  on  a  sheet  that  I  can 
forward  without  indiscretion  to  another,  as  I  desire 
the  information  for  a  friend  whom  I  wish  to  please. 

Now  look  here.  When  I  have  twelve  stories  ready 
— these  twelve — 

I.  The  Devil  on  Cramond  Sands  (needs  copy- 
ing about  half). 
II.  The  Curate  of  Anstruther's  Bottle  (needs 
copying  altogether). 

III.  The  Two  Falconers  of  Cairnstane  (wants  a 
few  pages). 

IV.  Strange  Adventures  of  Mr.  Nehemiah  Solny 
(wants  reorganisation). 

V.  King  Matthias's  Hunting  Horn  (all  ready). 
VI.  Autolycus  at  Court  (in  gremio). 

VII.  The  Family  of  Love  (in  gremio). 
VIII.  The  Barrel  Organ  (all  ready). 
IX.  The  Last  Sinner  (wants  copying). 
X.  Margery  Bonthron  (wants  a  few  pages). 
XL  Martin's  Madonna  (in  gremio). 
XII.  Life  and  Death  (all  ready). 

— when  I  have  these  twelve  ready,  should  I  not  do 
better  to  try  to  get  a  publisher  for  them,  call  them 


u 

■*-> 

o 

C/3 


AET.  25]  MRS.  SITWELL  207 

A  Book  of  Stories  and  put  a  dedicatory  letter  at  the 
fore  end  of  them.  I  should  get  less  coin  than  by 
going  into  magazines  perhaps;  but  I  should  also  get 
more  notice,  should  I  not?  and  so,  do  better  for 
myself  in  the  long  run.  Now,  should  I  not?  Be- 
sides a  book  with  boards  is  a  book  with  boards, 
even  if  it  bain't  a  very  fat  one  and  has  no  references 
to  Ammianus,  Marcellinus  and  German  critics  at 
the  foot  of  the  pages.  On  all  this,  I  shall  want  your 
serious  advice.  I  am  sure  I  shall  stand  or  fall  by  the 
stories;  and  you'll  think  so  too,  when  you  see  those 
poor  excrescences  the  two  John  Knox  and  Women 
games.  However,  judge  for  yourself  and  be  pru- 
dent on  my  behalf,  like  a  good  soul. 

Yes,  I'll  come  to  Cambridge  then  or  thereabout,  if 
God  doesn't  put  a  real  tangible  spoke  in  my  wheel. 

My  terms  with  my  parents  are  admirable;  we  are 
a  very  united  family. 

Good-bye,  mon  cher,  je  ne  puis  plus  ecrire.  I  have 
not  quite  got  over  a  damned  affecting  part  in  my 
story  this  morning.  O  cussed  stories,  they  will  never 
afifect  any  one  but  me  I  fear. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

In  the  following  is  related  Stevenson's  first  introduction  to  Mr. 
W.  E.  Henley.  The  acquaintance  thus  formed  ripened  quickly, 
as  is  well  known,  into  a  close  and  stimulating  friendship.  Of  the 
story  called  A  Country  Dance  no  trace  remains. 

Edinburgh,  Tuesday  [February  1875] 

I  GOT  your  nice  long  gossiping  letter  to-day — I 
mean  by  that  that  there  was  more  news  in  it  than 


2o8        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON       [1875 

usual — and  so,  of  course,  I  am  pretty  jolly.  I  am 
in  the  house,  however,  with  such  a  beastly  cold  in  the 
head.     Our  cast  winds  begin  already  to  be  very  cold. 

O,  I  have  such  a  longing  for  children  of  my  own; 
and  yet  I  do  not  think  I  could  bear  it  if  I  had  one. 
I  fancy  I  must  feel  more  like  a  woman  than  like  a 
man  about  that.  1  sometimes  hate  the  children  I 
see  on  the  street — you  know  what  I  mean  by  hate — 
wish  they  were  somewhere  else,  and  not  there  to 
mock  me;  and  sometimes,  again,  I  don't  know  how 
to  go  by  them  for  the  love  of  them,  especially  the 
very  wee  ones. 

Thursday. — I  have  been  still  in  the  house  since  I 
wrote,  and  I  have  worked.  I  finished  the  Italian 
story;  not  well,  but  as  well  as  I  can  just  now;  I  must 
go  all  over  it  again,  some  time  soon,  when  I  feel  in 
the  humour  to  better  and  perfect  it.  And  now  I 
have  taken  up  an  old  story,  begun  years  ago;  and 
I  have  now  re-written  all  I  had  written  of  it  then, 
and  mean  to  finish  it.  What  I  have  lost  and  gained 
is  odd.  As  far  as  regards  simple  writing,  of  course, 
I  am  in  another  world  now;  but  in  some  things, 
though  more  clumsy,  I  seem  to  have  been  freer  and 
more  plucky:  this  is  a  lesson  I  have  taken  to  heart. 
I  have  got  a  jolly  new  name  for  my  old  story.  I 
am  going  to  call  it  A  Country  Dance;  the  two  heroes 
keep  changing  places,  you  know;  and  the  chapter 
where  the  most  of  this  changing  goes  on  is  to  be 
called  'Up  the  middle,  down  the  middle.'  It  will 
be  in  six  or  (perhaps)  seven  chapters.  I  have  never 
worked  harder  in  my  life  than  these  last  four  days. 
If  I  can  only  keep  it  up. 


AET  25]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  209 

Saturday. — Yesterday,  Leslie  Stephen,  who  was 
down  here  to  lecture,  called  on  me  and  took  me  up 
to  see  a  poor  fellow,  a  sort  of  poet  who  writes  for 
him,  and  who  has  been  eighteen  months  in  our 
infirmary,  and  may  be,  for  all  I  know,  eighteen 
months  more.  It  was  very  sad  to  see  him  there  in 
a  little  room  with  two  beds,  and  a  couple  of  sick 
children  in  the  other  bed;  a  girl  came  in  to  visit 
the  children,  and  played  dominoes  on  the  counter- 
pane with  them;  the  gas  flared  and  crackled,  the  fire 
burned  in  a  dull  economical  way;  Stephen  and  I  sat 
on  a  couple  of  chairs,  and  the  poor  fellow  sat  up  in 
his  bed  with  his  hair  and  beard  all  tangled,  and  talked 
as  cheerfully  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  King's  palace, 
or  the  great  King's  palace  of  the  blue  air.  He  has 
taught  himself  two  languages  since  he  has  been  lying 
there,     I  shall  try  to  be  of  use  to  him. 

We  have  had  two  beautiful  spring  days,  mild  as 
milk,  windy  withal,  and  the  sun  hot.  I  dreamed 
last  night  I  was  walking  by  moonlight  round  the 
place  where  the  scene  of  my  story  is  laid;  it  was  all 
so  quiet  and  sweet,  and  the  blackbirds  were  singing 
as  if  it  was  day;  it  made  my  heart  very  cool  and 
happy. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh]  February  8,  1875 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,— Forgive  my  bothering  you. 
Here  is  the  proof  of  my  second  Knox.  Glance  it 
over,  hke  a  good  fellow,  and  if  there's  anything  very 


210        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON       [.875 

llaj^rant  send  it  to  me  marked.  I  have  no  confidence 
in  myself;  I  feel  such  an  ass.  What  have  I  been 
doing?  As  near  as  I  can  calculate,  nothing.  And 
yet  I  have  worked  all  this  month  from  three  to  five 
hours  a  day,  that  is  to  say,  from  one  to  three  hours 
more  than  my  doctor  allows  me;  positively  no  result. 

No,  I  can  write  no  article  just  now;  I  am  pioch- 
ing,  like  a  madman,  at  my  stories,  and  can  make 
nothing  of  them;  my  simplicity  is  tame  and  dull — 
my  passion  tinsel,  boyish,  hysterical.  Never  mind — 
ten  years  hence,  if  I  live,  I  shall  have  learned,  so 
help  me  God.  I  know  one  must  work,  in  the  mean- 
time (so  says  Balzac)  comme  le  mineur  enfoiii  sous 
un  ehoulemenl. 

J^y  parviendrai,  nom  de  nom  de  nom!  But  it's  a 
long  look  forward. — Ever  yours, 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

As  the  spring  advanced  Stevenson  had  again  been  much  out  of 
sorts,  and  had  gone  for  a  change,  in  the  company  of  Mr.  R.  A.  M. 
Stevenson,  on  his  first  visit  to  the  artist  haunts  of  Fontainebleau 
which  were  afterwards  so  much  endeared  to  him. 

[Barbizon,  April  1875] 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — This  is  just  a  line  to  say  I  am 
well  and  happy.  I  am  here  in  my  dear  forest  all 
day  in  the  open  air.  It  is  very  be — no,  not  beauti- 
ful exactly,  just  now,  but  very  bright  and  living. 
There  are  one  or  two  song  birds  and  a  cuckoo;  all 
the  fruit-trees  are  in  flower,  and  the  beeches  make 
sunshine  in  a  shady  place.  I  begin  to  go  all  right; 
you  need  not  be  vexed  about  my  health;  I  really 
was  ill  at  first,  as  bad  as  T  have  been  for  nearly  a 


AET  25]  MRS.    SITWELL  211 

year;  but  the  forest  begins  to  work,  and  the  air, 
and  the  sun,  and  the  smell  of  the  pines.  If  I  could 
stay  a  month  here,  I  should  be  as  right  as  possible. 
Thanks  for  your  letter.— Your  faithful 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Swanston,  Tuesday,  April  1875] 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  have  been  so  busy,  away  to 
Bridge  of  Allan  with  my  father  first,  and  then  with 
Simpson  and  Baxter  out  here  from  Saturday  till 
Monday.  I  had  no  time  to  write,  and,  as  it  is,  am 
strangely  incapable.  Thanks  for  your  letter.  I  have 
been  reading  such  lots  of  law,  and  it  seems  to  take 
away  the  power  of  writing  from  me.  From  morn- 
ing to  night,  so  often  as  I  have  a  spare  moment, 
I  am  in  the  embrace  of  a  law  book — barren  em- 
braces. I  am  in  good  spirits;  and  my  heart  smites 
me  as  usual,  when  I  am  in  good  spirits,  about  my 
parents.  If  I  get  a  bit  dull,  I  am  away  to  London 
without  a  scruple;  but  so  long  as  my  heart  keeps  up, 
I  am  all  for  my  parents. 

What  do  you  think  of  Henley's  hospital  verses?* 
They  were  to  have  been  dedicated  to  me,  but  Stephen 
wouldn't  allow  it — said  it  would  be  pretentious. 

Wednesday. — I  meant  to  have  made  this  quite  a 
decent  letter  this  morning,  but  listen.  I  had  pain 
all  last  night,  and  did  not  sleep  well,  and  now  am 
cold  and  sickish,  and  strung  up  ever  and  again  with 
another  flash  of  pain.  Will  you  remember  me  to 
everybody?     My  principal  characteristics  are  cold, 

>  Printed  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  Cornhill. 


212        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON       [i^s 

poverty,  and  Scots  law — three  very  bad  things. 
Oo,  how  the  rain  falls!  The  mist  is  quite  low  on 
the  hill.  The  birds  are  twittering  to  each  other 
about  the  indifferent  season.  O,  here's  a  gem  for 
you.  An  old  godly  woman  predicted  the  end  of 
the  world,  because  the  seasons  were  becoming  in- 
distinguishable; my  cousin  Dora  objected  that  last 
winter  had  been  pretty  well  marked.  'Yes,  my 
dear,'  replied  the  soothsayeress ;  'but  I  think  you'll 
find  the  summer  will  be  rather  coamplicated.' — Ever 
your  faithful 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  rehearsals  were  those  of  Shakespeare's  Twelfth  Night 
for  amateur  theatricals  at  Professor  Fleeming  Jenkin's  in  which 
Stevenson  played  the  part  of  Orsino. 

[Edinburgh,  April  iSj $]  Salurday 

I  AM  getting  on  with  my  rehearsals,  but  I  find  the 
part  very  hard.  I  rehearsed  yesterday  from  a  quar- 
ter to  seven,  and  to-day  from  four  (with  interval  for 
dinner)  to  eleven.  You  see  the  sad  strait  I  am  in  for 
ink. — A  demain. 

Sunday. — This  is  the  third  ink-bottle  I  have  tried, 
and  still  it's  nothing  to  boast  of.  My  journey  went 
off  all  right,  and  I  have  kept  ever  in  good  spirits. 
Last  night,  indeed,  I  did  think  my  h'ttle  bit  of 
gaiety  was  going  away  down  the  wind  like  a  whiflf 
of  tobacco  smoke,  but  to-day  it  has  come  back  to 
me  a  little.  The  influence  of  this  place  is  assuredly 
all  that  can  be  worst  against  one;  mais  il  faiit  hitter. 
I  was  haunted  last  night  when  I  was  in  bed  by  the 


A£T.  25]  MRS.   SITWELL  213 

most  cold,  desolate  recollections  of  my  past  life 
here;  I  was  glad  to  try  and  think  of  the  forest,  and 
warm  my  hands  at  the  thought  of  it.  O  the  quiet, 
grey  thickets,  and  the  yellow  butterflies,  and  the 
woodpeckers,  and  the  outlook  over  the  plain  as  it 
were  over  a  sea!  O  for  the  good,  fleshly  stupidity 
of  the  woods,  the  body  conscious  of  itself  all  over 
and  the  mind  forgotten,  the  clean  air  nestling  next 
your  skin  as  though  your  clothes  were  gossamer, 
the  eye  filled  and  content,  the  whole  man  happy! 
Whereas  here  it  takes  a  pull  to  hold  yourself  to- 
gether; it  needs  both  hands,  and  a  book  of  stoical 
maxims,  and  a  sort  of  bitterness  at  the  heart  by  way 
of  armour. — Ever  your  faithful 

K..    Li.    O. 

Wednesday. — I  am  so  played  out  with  a  cold  in 
my  eye  that  I  cannot  see  to  write  or  read  without 
difficulty,  It  is  swollen  horrible;  so  how  I  shall 
look  as  Orsino.  God  knows!  I  have  my  fine 
clothes  tho'.  Henley's  sonnets  have  been  taken  for 
the  Cornhill.  He  is  out  of  hospital  now,  and  dressed, 
but  still  not  too  much  to  brag  of  in  health,  poor 
fellow,  I  am  afraid. 

Sunday. — So.  I  have  still  rather  bad  eyes,  and  a 
nasty  sore  throat.  I  play  Orsino  every  day,  in  all 
the  pomp  of  Solomon,  splendid  Francis  the  First 
clothes,  heavy  with  gold  and  stage  jewellery.  I  play 
it  ill  enough,  I  believe;  but  me  and  the  clothes, 
and  the  wedding  wherewith  the  clothes  and  me  are 
reconciled,  produce  every  night  a  thrill  of  admira- 
tion.    Our  cook  told  my  mother  (there  is  a  servants' 


2  1+        LKTTKRS   OF   STEVPZNSON      [.875 

night,  you  know)  that  she  and  the  housemaid  were 
'just  prood  to  be  able  to  say  it  was  oor  young  gentle- 
man.' To  sup  afterwards  with  these  clothes  on, 
and  a  wonderful  lot  of  gaiety  and  Shakespearean 
jokes  about  the  table,  is  something  to  live  for.  It 
is  so  nice  to  feel  you  have  been  dead  three  hundred 
years,  and  the  sound  of  your  laughter  is  faint  and 
far  of!  in  the  centuries. — Ever  your  faithful 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh,  April  1875] 

Wednesday. — A  moment  at  last.  These  last  few 
days  have  been  as  jolly  as  days  could  be,  and  by 
good  fortune  I  leave  to-morrow  for  Swanston,  so 
that  I  shall  not  feel  the  whole  fall  back  to  habitual 
self.  The  pride  of  life  could  scarce  go  further.  To 
live  in  splendid  clothes,  velvet  and  gold  and  fur, 
upon  principally  champagne  and  lobster  salad,  with 
a  company  of  people  nearly  all  of  whom  are  excep- 
tionally good  talkers;  when  your  days  began  about 
eleven  and  ended  about  four — I  have  lost  that 
sentence;  I  give  it  up;  it  is  very  admirable  sport, 
any  way.  Then  both  my  afternoons  have  been 
so  pleasantly  occupied — taking  Henley  drives.  I 
had  a  business  to  carry  him  down  the  long  stair, 
and  more  of  a  business  to  get  him  up  again,  but 
while  he  was  in  the  carriage  it  was  splendid.  It  is 
now  just  the  top  of  spring  with  us.  The  whole 
country  is  mad  with  green.  To  see  the  cherry- 
blossom   bitten   out   upon   the   black   firs,  and   the 


AET.  25]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  215 

black  firs  bitten  out  of  the  blue  sky,  was  a  sight 
to  set  before  a  king.  You  may  imagine  what  it 
was  to  a  man  who  has  been  eighteen  months  in  an 
hospital  ward.  The  look  of  his  face  was  a  wine  to 
me.  He  plainly  has  been  little  in  the  country  before. 
Imagine  this:  I  always  stopped  him  on  the  Bridges 
to  let  him  enjoy  the  great  cry  of  green  that  goes 
up  to  Heaven  out  of  the  river  beds,  and  he  asked 
(more  than  once)  'What  noise  is  that?' — 'The 
water.' — 'O!'  almost  incredulously;  and  then  quite 
a  long  while  after:  'Do  you  know  the  noise  of  the 
water  astonished  me  very  much?'  I  was  much 
struck  by  his  putting  the  question  twice;  I  have  lost 
the  sense  of  wonder  of  course;  but  there  must  be 
something  to  wonder  at,  for  Henley  has  eyes  and 
ears  and  an  immortal  soul  of  his  own. 

I  shall  send  this  off  to-day  to  let  you  know  of 
my  new  address — Swanston  Cottage,  Lothianburn, 
Edinburgh.  Salute  the  faithful  in  my  name.  Salute 
Priscilla,  salute  Barnabas,  salute  Ebenezer — O  no, 
he's  too  much,  I  withdraw  Ebenezer;  enough  of 
early  Christians. — Ever  your  faithful 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  May  or  June  1875] 

I  SAY,  we  have  a  splendid  picture  here  in  Edin- 
burgh. A  Ruysdael  of  which  one  can  never  tire: 
I  think  it  is  one  of  the  best  landscapes  in  the  world; 
a  grey  still  day,  a  grey  still  river,  a  rough  oak  wood 
on  one  shore,  on  the  other  chalky  banks  with  very 


2i6       LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [.87s 

complicated  footpaths,  oak  woods,  a  field  where  a 
man  stands  rcapinj^,  church  towers  relieved  against 
the  sky  and  a  beautiful  distance,  neither  blue  nor 
green.  It  is  so  still,  the  light  is  so  cool  and  tem- 
perate, the  river  woos  you  to  bathe  in  it.  O  I 
hke  it! 

I  say,  I  wonder  if  our  Scottish  Academy's  exhi- 
bition is  going  to  be  done  at  all  for  Appleton  or 
whether  he  does  not  care  for  it.  It  might  amuse 
me,  although  I  am  not  fit  for  it.  Why  and  O  why 
doesn't  Grove  publish  me  ? — Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

I  was  at  this  time  revising  for  the  Portfolio  the  substance  of 
Cambridge  lectures  on  Hogarth. 

[Swanslon,  June  1875] 

MY  DEAR  colvin, — I  am  a  devil  certainly;  but 
write  I  cannot.  Look  here,  you  had  better  get 
hold  of  G.  C.  Lichtenberg's  Ausfiirliche  Erklariing 
der  Hogarthischen  Kiipferstiche:  Gottingen,  1794 
to  1816  (it  was  published  in  numbers  seemingly). 
Douglas  the  publisher  lent  it  to  me:  and  tho'  I 
hate  the  damned  tongue  too  cordially  to  do  more 
than  dip  into  it,  I  have  seen  some  shrewd  things. 
If  you  cannot  get  it  for  yourself,  (it  seems  scarce), 
I  daresay  I  could  negotiate  with  Douglas  for  a  loan. 
This  adorable  spring  has  made  me  quite  drunken, 
drunken  with  green  colour  and  golden  sound.  We 
have  the  best  blackbird  here  that  we  have  had  for 
years;  we  have  two;  but  the  other  is  but  an  aver- 
age performer.     Anything  so  rich  and  clear  as  the 


AET.  25]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  217 

pipe  of  our  first  fiddle,  it  never  entered  into  the 
heart  of  man  to  fancy.  How  the  years  slip  away, 
Colvin;  and  we  walk  little  cycles,  and  turn  in  lit- 
tle abortive  spirals,  and  come  out  again,  hot  and 
weary,  to  find  the  same  view  before  us,  the  same 
hill  barring  the  road.  Only  bless  God  for  it,  we 
have  still  the  same  eye  to  see  with,  and  if  the  scene 
be  not  altogether  unsightly,  we  can  enjoy  it  whether 
or  no,  I  feel  quite  happy,  but  curiously  inert  and 
passive,  something  for  the  winds  to  blow  over,  and 
the  sun  to  glimpse  on  and  go  off  again,  as  it  might 
be  a  tree  or  a  gravestone.  All  this  willing  and 
wishing  and  striving  leads  a  man  nowhere  after  all. 
Here  I  am  back  again  in  my  old  humour  of  a  sunny 
equanimity;  to  see  the  world  fleet  about  me;  and 
the  days  chase  each  other  like  sun  patches,  and  the 
nights  like  cloud-shadows,  on  a  windy  day;  con- 
tent to  see  them  go  and  no  wise  reluctant  for  the 
cool  evening,  with  its  dew  and  stars  and  fading 
strain  of  tragic  red.  And  I  ask  myself  why  I  ever 
leave  this  humour  ?  What  I  have  gained  ?  And  the 
winds  blow  in  the  trees  with  a  sustained  'Pish!'  and 
the  birds  answer  me  in  a  long  derisive  whistle. 

So  that  for  health,  happiness,  and  indifferent  liter- 
ature, apply  to — Ever  yours, 

H..  L.  S. 


2i8        LK'ITKRS   OF  STEVENSON      [.87s 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Burn!:  means  the  article  on  Bums  which  R.  L.  S.  had  been  com- 
missioned lu  write  for  the  Knryclopa-dia  Britannica.  The  'awfully 
nice  man'  was  the  Hon.  J.  Seed,  formerly  Secretary  to  the  Customs 
and  Marine  Department  of  New  Zealand;  and  it  was  from  his 
conversation  that  the  notion  of  the  Samoan  Islands  as  a  place  of 
refuge  for  the  sick  and  world-worn  first  entered  Stevenson's  mind, 
to  lie  dormant  (I  never  heard  him  speak  of  it)  and  be  revived  thir- 
teen years  later. 

[Edinburgh,  June  1875] 

Simply  a  scratch.  All  right,  jolly,  well,  and 
through  with  the  difficulty.  My  father  pleased 
about  the  Burns.  Never  travel  in  the  same  car- 
riage with  three  able-bodied  seamen  and  a  fruiterer 
from  Kent;  the  A.-B.'s  speak  all  night  as  though 
they  were  hailing  vessels  at  sea;  and  the  fruiterer 
as  if  he  were  crying  fruit  in  a  noisy  market-place — 
such,  at  least,  is  my  funeste  experience.  I  wonder 
if  a  fruiterer  from  some  place  else — say  Worcester- 
shire— would  offer  the  same  phenomena?  insoluble 
doubt.  R    T     9 

Later. — Forgive  me,  couldn't  get  it  off.  Awfully 
nice  man  here  to-night.  Public  servant — New  Zea- 
land. Telling  us  all  about  the  South  Sea  Islands 
till  I  was  sick  with  desire  to  go  there;  beautiful 
places,  green  for  ever;  perfect  climate;  perfect 
shapes  of  men  and  women,  with  red  flowers  in  their 
hair;  and  nothing  to  do  but  to  study  oratory  and 
etiquette,  sit  in  the  sun,  and  pick  up  the  fruits  as 
they  fall.  Navigator's  Island  is  the  place;  absolute 
balm  for  the  weary. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 


AET.  25]  MRS.  SITWELL  219 


To  Mrs.  Sit  well 

The  examination  for  the  Bar  at  Edinburgh  was  approaching. 
Fontainebleau  is  the  paper  called  Forest  Notes,  afterwards  printed 
in  the  Cornhill  Magazine.  The  church  is  Glencourse  Church  in  the 
Pentlands,  to  the  thoughts  of  which  Stevenson  reverted  in  his  last 
days  with  so  much  emotion  (see  Weir  of  Hermiston,  chap.  v.). 

[Swanston.  End  of  June  1875] 
Thursday. — This  day  fortnight  I  shall  fall  or  con- 
quer. Outside  the  rain  still  soaks;  but  now  and  again 
the  hilltop  looks  through  the  mist  vaguely.  I  am  very 
comfortable,  very  sleepy,  and  very  much  satisfied  with 
the  arrangements  of  Providence, 

Saturday — no,  Sunday,  12.45. — J^^^  been — not 
grinding,  alas! — I  couldn't — but  doing  a  bit  of 
Fontainebleau.  I  don't  think  I'll  be  plucked.  I 
am  not  sure  though — I  am  so  busy,  what  with  this 
d — d  law,  and  this  Fontainebleau  always  at  my 
elbow,  and  three  plays  (three,  think  of  that!)  and  a 
story,  all  crying  out  to  me,  'Finish,  finish,  make 
an  entire  end,  make  us  strong,  shapely,  viable 
creatures ! '  It's  enough  to  put  a  man  crazy.  More- 
over, I  have  my  thesis  given  out  now,  which  is  a 
fifth  (is  it  fifth?  I  can't  count)  incumbrance. 

Sunday. — I've  been  to  church,  and  am  not  de- 
pressed— a  great  step.  I  was  at  that  beautiful 
church  my  petit  poeme  en  prose  was  about.  It  is  a 
little  cruciform  place,  with  heavy  cornices  and  string 
course  to  match,  and  a  steep  slate  roof.  The  small 
kirkyard  is  full  of  old  gravestones.  One  of  a  French- 
man from  Dunkerque — I  suppose  he  died  prisoner 
in  the  military  prison  hard  by — and  one,  the  most 


220       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [1875 

pathetic  memorial  I  ever  saw,  a  poor  school-slate, 
in  a  wooden  frame,  with  the  inscription  cut  into  it 
evidently  by  the  father's  own  hand.  In  church,  old 
Mr.  Torrence  preached — over  eighty,  and  a  relic  of 
times  forgotten,  with  his  black  thread  gloves  and 
mild  old  foolish  face.  One  of  the  nicest  parts  of  it 
was  to  see  John  Inglis,  the  greatest  man  in  Scotland, 
our  Justice-General,  and  the  only  born  lawyer  I  ever 
heard,  listening  to  the  piping  old  body,  as  though  it 
had  all  been  a  revelation,  grave  and  respectful. — 
Ever  your  faithful 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh   July  15,  1875] 

Passed. 

Ever  your 
R. 
L. 
& 


IV 

ADVOCATE   AND   AUTHOR 
EDINBURGH— PARIS— FONTAINEBLEAU 

JULY    1875-JUIY    1879 

HAVING  on  the  14th  of  July  1875  passed  with 
credit  his  examination  for  the  Bar  at  Edin- 
burgh, Stevenson  thenceforth  enjoyed  what- 
ever status  and  consideration  attaches  to  the  title 
of  Advocate.  But  he  made  no  serious  attempt  to 
practise,  and  by  the  25th  of  the  same  month  had 
started  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson  for  France.  Here 
he  lived  and  tramped  for  several  weeks  among  the 
artist  haunts  of  Fontainebleau  and  the  neighbour- 
hood, occupying  himself  chiefly  with  studies  of  the 
French  poets  and  poetry  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
which  afterwards  bore  fruit  in  his  papers  on  Charles 
of  Orleans  and  Francois  Villon.  Thence  he  travelled 
to  join  his  parents  at  Wiesbaden  and  Homburg. 
Returning  in  the  autumn  to  Scotland,  he  made,  to 
please  them,  an  effort  to  live  the  ordinary  life  of 
an  Edinburgh  advocate — attending  trials  and  spend- 
ing his  mornings  in  wig  and  gown  at  the  Parliament 
House.  But  this  attempt  was  before  long  aban- 
doned as  tending  to  waste  of  time  and  being  in- 

22X 


222        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON 

compatible  with  his  real  occupation  of  literature. 
Through  the  next  winter  and  spring  he  remained 
in  Edinburgh,  except  for  a  short  winter  walking 
tour  in  Ayrshire  and  Galloway,  and  a  month  spent 
among  his  friends  in  London.  In  the  late  summer 
of  1876,  after  a  visit  to  the  West  Highlands,  he  made 
the  canoe  trip  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson  which  fur- 
nished the  subject  of  the  Inland  Voyage,  followed 
by  a  prolonged  autumn  stay  at  Grez  and  Barbizon. 
The  life,  atmosphere,  and  scenery  of  these  forest 
haunts  had  charmed  and  soothed  him,  as  we  have 
seen,  since  he  was  first  introduced  to  them  by  his 
cousin,  Mr.  R.  A.  M.  Stevenson,  in  the  spring  of 
1875.  An  unfettered,  unconventional,  open-air  ex- 
istence, passed  face  to  face  with  nature  and  in  the 
company  of  congenial  people  engaged,  like  himself, 
in  grappling  with  the  problems  and  difficulties  of 
an  art,  had  been  what  he  had  longed  for  most 
consistently  through  all  the  agitations  of  his  youth. 
And  now  he  had  found  just  such  an  existence,  and 
with  it,  as  he  thought,  peace  of  mind,  health,  and  the 
spirit  of  unimpeded  work. 

But  peace  of  mind  was  not  to  be  his  for  long. 
What  indeed  awaited  him  in  the  forest  was  some- 
thing different  and  more  momentous:  it  'was  his 
fate:  the  romance  which  decided  his  life,  and  the 
companion  whom  he  resolved  to  make  his  own  at 
all  hazards.  But  of  this  hereafter.  To  continue 
briefly  the  annals  of  the  time:  the  year  1877  was 
again  spent  between  Edinburgh,  London,  the  Fon- 


ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR       223 

tainebleau  region,  and  several  different  temporary 
abodes  in  the  artists'  and  other  quarters  of  Paris; 
with  an  excursion  in  the  company  of  his  parents  to 
the  Land's  End  in  August,  In  1878  a  similar  general 
mode  of  life  was  varied  by  a  visit  with  his  parents 
in  March  to  Burford  Bridge,  where  he  made  warm 
friends  with  a  senior  to  whom  he  had  long  looked 
up  from  a  distance,  Mr.  George  Meredith;  by  a 
spell  of  secretarial  work  under  Professor  Fleeming 
Jenkin,  who  was  serving  as  a  juror  on  the  Paris 
Exhibition;  and  lastly,  by  the  autumn  tramp 
through  the  Cevennes,  afterwards  recounted  with 
so  much  charm  in  Travels  with  a  Donkey.  The 
first  half  of  1879  was  again  spent  between  London, 
Scotland,  and  France. 

During  these  four  years,  it  should  be  added,  Steven- 
son's health  was  very  passable.  It  often,  indeed, 
threatened  to  give  way  after  any  prolonged  residence 
in  Edinburgh,  but  was  generally  soon  restored  by 
open-air  excursions  (during  which  he  was  capable 
of  fairly  vigorous  and  sustained  daily  exercise),  or 
by  a  spell  of  life  among  the  woods  of  Eon  tainebleau. 
They  were  also  the  years  in  which  he  settled  for 
good  into  his  chosen  profession  of  letters.  He  worked 
rather  desultorily  for  the  first  twelve  months  after 
his  call  to  the  Bar,  but  afterwards  with  ever-growing 
industry  and  success,  winning  from  the  critical  a 
full  measure  of  recognition,  though  relatively  little, 
so  far,  from  the  general  public.  In  1875  and  1876 
he  contributed  as  a  journalist,  though  not  frequently. 


224        LETTERS   OF   STEVEINSON 

to  the  Academy  and  Vanity  Fair,  and  in  1877  more 
abundantly  to  London,  a  weekly  review  founded 
by  Mr.  Glasgow  Brown,  an  acquaintance  of  Edin- 
burgh Speculative  days,  and  carried  on,  after  the 
failure  of  that  gentleman's  health,  by  Mr.  Henley. 
But  he  had  no  great  gift  or  liking  for  journalism, 
or  for  any  work  not  calling  for  the  best  literary  form 
and  finish  he  could  give.  Where  he  found  special 
scope  for  such  work  was  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
under  the  editorship  of  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen.  Here 
he  continued  his  critical  papers  on  men  and  books, 
already  begun  in  1874  with  Victor  Hugo,  and  began 
in  1876  the  series  of  papers  afterwards  collected 
in  Virginibus  Puerisque.  They  were  continued  in 
1877,  and  in  greater  number  throughout  1878.  His 
first  published  stories  appeared  as  follows: — A 
Lodging  for  the  Night,  Temple  Bar,  October  1877; 
The  Sire  de  Maletroifs  Door,  Temple  Bar,  January 
1878;  and  Will  0'  the  Mill,  Cornhill  Magazine, 
January  1878.  In  May  1878  followed  his  first 
travel  book.  The  Inland  Voyage,  containing  the 
account  of  his  canoe  trip  from  Antwerp  to  Grez. 
This  was  to  Stevenson  a  year  of  great  and  various 
productiveness.  Besides  six  or  eight  characteristic 
essays  of  the  Virginibus  Puerisque  series,  there 
appeared  in  London  the  set  of  fantastic  modern 
tales  called  the  New  Arabian  Nights,  conceived  and 
written  in  an  entirely  different  key  from  any  of  his 
previous  work,  as  well  as  the  kindly,  sentimental 
comedy   of   French   artist   life.   Providence  and  the 


ADVOCATE   AND   AUTHOR       225 

Guitar;  and  in  the  Portfolio  the  Picturesque  Notes 
on  Edinburgh,  repubhshed  at  the  end  of  the  year 
in  book  form.  During  the  autumn  and  winter  of 
this  year  he  wrote  Travels  with  a  Donkey  in  the  Ce- 
vennes,  and  was  much  and  eagerly  engaged  in  the 
planning  of  plays  in  collaboration  with  Mr.  Henley; 
of  which  one,  Deacon  Brodie,  was  finished  in  the 
spring  of  1879.  In  the  same  spring  he  drafted  in 
Edinburgh,  but  afterwards  laid  by,  four  chapters 
on  ethics,  a  study  of  which  he  once  spoke  as  being 
always  his  Veiled  mistress,'  under  the  name  of 
Lay  Morals. 

But  abounding  in  good  work  as  this  period  was,  and 
momentous  as  it  was  in  regard  to  Stevenson's  future 
life,  it  is  a  period  which  figures  but  meagrely  in  his 
correspondence,  and  in  this  book  must  fill  dispro- 
portionately little  space.  Without  the  least  breach 
of  friendship,  or  even  of  intimate  confidence  on 
occasion,  Stevenson  had  begun,  as  was  natural  and 
necessary,  to  wean  himself  from  his  entire  depend- 
ence on  his  friend  and  counsellor  of  the  last  two 
years;  to  take  his  life  more  into  his  own  hands;  and  to 
intermit  the  regularity  of  his  correspondence  with 
her.  A  few  new  correspondents  appear;  but  to 
none  of  us  in  these  days  did  he  write  more  than 
scantily.  Partly  his  growing  absorption  by  the 
complications  of  his  life  and  the  interests  of  his 
work  left  him  little  time  or  inclination  for  letter- 
writing;  partly  his  greater  freedom  of  movement 
made  it  unnecessary.     On  his  way  backwards  and 


226        LKTIHRS   OF  STKVENSON       [.875 

forwards  between  Scotland  and  France,  his  friends 
in  London  had  the  chance  of  seeing  him  much  more 
frccjuently  than  of  yore.  He  avoided  formal  and 
dress-coated  society;  but  in  the  company  of  con- 
genial friends,  whether  men  or  women,  and  in  places 
like  the  Savile  Club  (his  favourite  haunt),  he  was  as 
brilliant  and  stimulating  as  ever,  and  however  acute 
his  inward  preoccupations,  his  visits  were  always  a 
delight. 


'to' 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  end  of  July  1875] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Herewith  you  receive  the  rest 
of  Henley's  hospital  work.  He  was  much  pleased 
by  what  you  said  of  him,  and  asked  me  to  forward 
these  to  you  for  your  opinion.  One  poem,  the 
Spring  Sorrow,  seems  to  me  the  most  beautiful.  I 
thank  God  for  this  petit  bout  de  consolation,  that  by 
Henley's  own  account,  this  one  more  lovely  thing  in 
the  world  is  not  altogether  without  some  trace  of 
my  influence:  let  me  say  that  I  have  been  something 
sympathetic  which  the  mother  found  and  contem- 
plated while  she  yet  carried  it  in  her  womb.  This, 
in  my  profound  discouragement,  is  a  great  thing 
for  me;  if  I  cannot  do  good  with  myself,  at  least, 
it  seems,  I  can  help  others  better  inspired;  I  am  at 
least  a  skilful  accoucheur.  My  discouragement  is 
from  many  causes:  among  others  the  re-reading  of 
my  Italian  story.  Forgive  me,  Colvin,  but  I  can- 
not agree  with  you;  it  seems  green  fruit  to  me,  if 
not  really   unwholesome;    it   is   profoundly   feeble, 


AET.  25]  MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON      227 

damn  its  weakness!  Moreover  I  stick  over  my 
Fontainehleau,  it  presents  difficulties  to  me  that  I 
surmount  slowly. 

I  am  very  busy  with  Beranger  for  the  Britannica, 
Shall  be  up  in  town  on  Friday  or  Saturday. — Ever 

y°"^^'  R.  L.  S.,  Advocate 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Chez  Sirdn,  Barbizon, 
Seine  et  Marne,  August  1875] 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  have  been  three  days  at  a 
place  called  Grez,  a  pretty  and  very  melancholy 
village  on  the  plain.  A  low  bridge  of  many  arches 
choked  with  sedge;  great  fields  of  white  and  yellow 
water-lilies;  poplars  and  willows  innumerable;  and 
about  it  all  such  an  atmosphere  of  sadness  and  slack- 
ness, one  could  do  nothing  but  get  into  the  boat  and 
out  of  it  again,  and  yawn  for  bedtime. 

Yesterday  Bob  and  I  walked  home;  it  came  on 
a  very  creditable  thunderstorm;  we  were  soon  wet 
through;  sometimes  the  rain  was  so  heavy  that  one 
could  only  see  by  holding  the  hand  over  the  eyes; 
and  to  crown  all,  we  lost  our  way  and  wandered  all 
over  the  place,  and  into  the  artillery  range,  among 
broken  trees,  with  big  shot  lying  about  among  the 
rocks.  It  was  near  dinner-time  when  we  got  to 
Barbizon;  and  it  is  supposed  that  we  walked  from 
twenty-three  to  twenty-five  miles,  which  is  not  bad 
for  the  Advocate,  who  is  not  tired  this  morning.  I 
was  very  glad  to  be  back  again  in  this  dear  place, 
and  smell  the  wet  forest  in  the  morning. 


228        LKTTFRS   OF  STEVENSON      [.875 

Simpson  and  the  rest  drove  back  in  a  carriage,  and 
got  about  as  wet  as  we  did. 

Why  don't  you  write?  I  have  no  more  to  say. — 
Ever  your  afTcctionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Mrs.  Sit  well 

At  this  time  Stevenson  was  much  occupied,  as  were  several  young 
WTiters  his  contemporaries,  with  imitating  the  artificial  forms  of 
early  French  verse.  Only  one  of  his  attempts,  I  believe,  has  been 
preserved,  besides  the  two  contained  in  this  letter.  The  second  is 
a  variation  on  a  theme  of  Banville's. 

Chateau  Renard,  Loirel,  August,  1875 

I  HAVE  been  walking  these  last  days  from  place  to 
place;  and  it  does  make  it  hot  for  walking  with  a 
sack  in  this  weather.  I  am  burned  in  horrid  patches 
of  red;  my  nose,  I  fear,  is  going  to  take  the  lead  in 
colour;  Simpson  is  all  flushed,  as  if  he  were  seen 
by  a  sunset.  I  send  you  here  two  rondeaux;  I  don't 
suppose  they  will  amuse  anybody  but  me;  but  this 
measure,  short  and  yet  intricate,  is  just  what  I 
desire;  and  I  have  had  some  good  times  walking 
along  the  glaring  roads,  or  down  the  poplar  alley 
of  the  great  canal,  pitting  my  own  humour  to  this 
old  verse. 

Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town, 
And  far  from  all  your  sorrows,  if  you  please, 
To  smell  the  good  sea-winds  and  hear  the  seas, 
And  in  green  meadows  lay  your  body  down. 

To  find  your  pale  face  grow  from  pale  to  brown. 
Your  sad  eyes  growing  brighter  by  degrees; 
Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town, 
And  far  from  all  your  sorrows,  if  you  please. 


AET.  25]  MRS.  SITWELL  229 

Here  in  this  seaboard  land  of  old  renown, 
In  meadow  grass  go  wading  to  the  knees; 
Bathe  your  whole  soul  a  while  in  simple  ease; 
There  is  no  sorrow  but  the  sea  can  drown; 
Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town. 

Nous  nHrons  plus  an  bois 
We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more, 
But  stay  beside  the  fire, 
To  weep  for  old  desire 
And  things  that  are  no  more. 

The  woods  are  spoiled  and  hoar, 
The  ways  are  full  of  mire; 
We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more, 
But  stay  beside  the  fire. 

We  loved,  in  days  of  yore, 
Love,  laughter,  and  the  lyre. 
Ah  God,  but  death  is  dire, 
And  death  is  at  the  door — 
We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  special  mood  or  occasion  of  unaccustomed  bitterness  which 
prompted  this  rhapsody  has  passed  from  memory  beyond  recall. 
The  date  must  be  after  his  return  from  his  second  excursion  to 
Fontainebleau. 

[Swanston,  late  Summer  1875]  Thursday 

I  HAVE  been  staying  in  town,  and  could  not  write 
a  word.  It  is  a  fine  strong  night,  full  of  wind;  the 
trees  are  all  crying  out  in  the  darkness;  funny  to 
think  of  the  birds  asleep  outside,  on  the  tossing 
branches,  the  little  bright  eyes  closed,  the  brave 
wings  folded,  the  little  hearts  that  beat  so  hard 
and  thick  (so  much  harder  and  thicker  than  ever 
human  heart)  all  stilled  and  quieted  in  deep  slumber, 
in   the  midst  of  this  noise  and  turmoil.     Why,   it 


230        LKTTKRS   OF  STKVKNSON       [1875 

will  be  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  sleep  in  here  in  my 
walled  room;  so  loud  and  jolly  the  wind  sounds 
through  the  open  window.  The  unknown  places  of 
the  night  invite  the  travelling  fancy;  I  like  to  think 
of  the  sleeping  towns  and  sleeping  farm-houses  and 
cottages,  all  the  world  over,  here  by  the  white  road 
poplar-lined,  there  by  the  clamorous  surf.  Isn't  that 
a  good  dormitive  ? 

Saturday. — I  cannot  tell  how  I  feel,  who  can  ever? 
I  feel  like  a  person  in  a  novel  of  George  Sand's; 
I  feel  I  desire  to  go  out  of  the  house,  and  begin  life 
anew  in  the  cool  blue  night;  never  to  come  back 
here;  never,  never.  Only  to  go  out  for  ever  by 
sunny  day  and  grey  day,  by  bright  night  and  foul, 
by  high-way  and  by-way,  town  and  hamlet,  until 
somewhere  by  a  road-side  or  in  some  clean  inn 
clean  death  opened  his  arms  to  me  and  took  me  to 
his  quiet  heart  for  ever.  If  soon,  good;  if  late, 
well  then,  late — there  would  be  many  a  long  bright 
mile  behind  me,  many  a  goodly,  many  a  serious 
sight;  I  should  die  ripe  and  perfect,  and  take  my 
garnered  experience  with  me  into  the  cool,  sweet 
earth.  For  I  have  died  already  and  survived  a 
death;  I  have  seen  the  grass  grow  rankly  on  my 
grave;  I  have  heard  the  train  of  mourners  come 
weeping  and  go  laughing  away  again.  And  when  I 
was  alone  there  in  the  kirk-yard,  and  the  birds 
began  to  grow  familiar  with  the  grave-stone,  I  have 
begun  to  laugh  also,  and  laughed  and  laughed  until 
night-flowers  came  out  above  me.  I  have  survived 
myself,  and  somehow  live  on,  a  curious  changeling, 
a  merry  ghost;   and  do  not  mind  living  on,  tinding 


AEt.  25]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  231 

it  not  unpleasant;   only  had  rather,  a  thousandfold, 
died  and  been  done  with  the  whole  damned  show 
■for  ever.     It  is  a  strange  feehng  at  first  to  survive 
yourself,  but  one  gets  used  to  that  as  to  most  thmgs. 
Et  puis,  is  it  not  one's  own  fault?     Why  did  not 
one  lie  still  in  the  grave?     Why  rise  again  among 
men's   troubles  and   toils,   where   the   wicked   wag 
their  shock  beards  and   hound   the   weary  out  to 
labour?     When  I  was  safe  in  prison,  and  stone  walls 
and  iron  bars  were  an  hermitage  about  me,  who 
told  me  to  burst  the  mild  constraint  and  go  forth 
where  the  sun  dazzles,  and  the  wind  pierces,  and 
the  loud  world  sounds  and  jangles  all  through  the 
weary  day  ?     I  mind  an  old  print  of  a  hermit  commg 
out  of  a  great  wood  towards  evening  and  shading 
his   bleared   eyes  to   see  all  the   kingdoms  of   the 
earth   before   his   feet,    where    towered   cities   and 
castled  hills,  and  stately  rivers,  and  good  corn  lands 
made  one  great  chorus  of  temptation  for  his  weak 
spirit,  and  I  think  I  am  the  hermit,  and  would  to 
God  I  had  dwelt  ever  in  the  wood  of  penitence  ' 

is..   1^.    bt 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  Burns  herein  mentioned  is  an  article  undertaken  in  the 
early  summer  of  the  same  year  for  the  Encyclopedia  Bntanmca 
In  the  end  Stevenson's  work  was  thought  to  convey  a  view  of  he 
Boet  too  frankly  critical,  and  too  little  in  accordance  with  the 
accepS  Scotch  tradition;  and  the  publishers,  duly  paying  him 
for  h  s  labours,  transferred  the  task  to  Professor  Shairp.  The 
lolume  herrannounced  on  the  three  Scottish  eighteenth-century 
noets  unfortunately  never  came  into  being.  The  (-I^arles  oj 
&rira»5  essay  appeared  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  for  December 
1  The  letter  breaks  off  here. 


232        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [1875 

of  the  following  year;  that  on  Villon  (with  the  stor>'  on  the  same 
theme,  A  Lodginf;  for  the  Nif^tU)  not  until  the  autumn  of  1877. 
The  essay  on  Bcranger  referred  to  at  the  end  of  the  letter  was  one 
commissioned  and  used  by  the  editor  of  the  Encyclopaedia;  Spring 
was  a  prose  i)oem,  of  which  the  manuscript,  sent  to  me  at  Cam- 
bridge, was  unluckily  lost  in  the  confusion  of  a  change  of  rooms. 

[Edinburgh,  Autumn  1875] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Thanks  for  your  letter  and 
news.  No — my  Burns  is  not  done  yet,  it  has  led 
me  so  far  afield  that  I  cannot  finish  it;  every  time 
I  think  I  see  my  way  to  an  end,  some  new  game 
(or  perhaps  wild  goose)  starts  up,  and  away  I  go. 
And  then,  again,  to  be  plain,  I  shirk  the  work  of 
the  critical  part,  shirk  it  as  a  man  shirks  a  long 
jump.  It  is  awful  to  have  to  express  and  differ- 
entiate Burns  in  a  column  or  two.  O  golly,  I  say, 
you  know,  it  can't  be  done  at  the  money.  All  the 
more  as  I'm  going  to  write  a  book  about  it.  Ramsay, 
Fergusson,  and  Burns:  an  Essay  (or  a  critical  essay  ? 
but  then  I'm  going  to  give  lives  of  the  three  gen- 
tlemen, only  the  gist  of  the  book  is  the  criticism) 
by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  Advocate.  How's  that 
for  cut  and  dry?  And  I  could  write  this  book. 
Unless  I  deceive  myself,  I  could  even  write  it  pretty 
adequately.  I  feel  as  if  I  was  really  in  it;  and  knew 
the  game  thoroughly.  You  see  what  comes  of  trying 
to  write  an  essay  on  Burns  in  ten  columns. 

Meantime,  when  I  have  done  Burns,  I  shall  finish 
Charles  of  Orleans  (who  is  in  a  good  way,  about  the 
fifth  month,  I  should  think,  and  promises  to  be  a 
fine  healthy  child,  better  than  any  of  his  elder 
brothers  for  a  while);  and  then  perhaps  a  Villon, 
for  Villon  is  a  very  essential  part  of  my  Ramsay- 


AET.  25]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  233 

Fergusson-Burns;  I  mean,  is  a  note  in  it,  and  will 
recur  again  and  again  for  comparison  and  illustra- 
tion; then,  perhaps,  I  may  try  Fontainebleau,  by 
the  way.  But  so  soon  as  Charles  of  Orleans  is 
polished  off,  and  immortalised  for  ever,  he  and  his 
pipings,  in  a  solid  imperishable  shrine  of  R.  L.  S., 
my  true  aim  and  end  will  be  this  little  book.  Sup- 
pose I  could  jerk  you  out  100  Cornhill  pages;  that 
would  easy  make  200  pages  of  decent  form;  and 
then  thickish  paper — eh?  would  that  do?  I  dare 
say  it  could  be  made  bigger;  but  I  know  what  100 
pages  of  copy,  bright  consummate  copy,  imply  be- 
hind the  scenes  of  weary  manuscribing;  I  think  if  I 
put  another  nothing  to  it,  I  should  not  be  outside  the 
mark;  and  100  Cornhill  pages  of  500  words  means, 
I  fancy  (but  I  never  was  good  at  figures),  means 
50,000  words.  There's  a  prospect  for  an  idle  young 
gentleman  who  lives  at  home  at  ease!  The  future 
is  thick  with  inky  fingers.  And  then  perhaps  no- 
body would  publish.  Ah  nom  de  dieu!  What  do 
you  think  of  all  this  ?  will  it  paddle,  think  you  ? 

I  hope  this  pen  will  write;  it  is  the  third  I  have  tried. 

About  coming  up,  no,  that's  impossible;  for  I  am 
worse  than  a  bankrupt.  I  have  at  the  present  six 
shillings  and  a  penny;  I  have  a  sounding  lot  of  bills 
for  Christmas;  new  dress  suit,  for  instance,  the  old 
one  having  gone  for  Parliament  House;  and  new 
white  shirts  to  live  up  to  my  new  profession;  I'm 
as  gay  and  swell  and  gummy  as  can  be;  only  all 
my  boots  leak;  one  pair  water,  and  the  other  two 
simple  black  mud;  so  that  my  rig  is  more  for  the 
e»"*  than  h  very  solid  comfort  to  myself.     That  is 


234        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      (.875 

my  budget.  Dismal  enough,  and  no  prospect  of 
any  coin  coming  in;  at  least  for  months.  So  that 
here  I  am,  I  almost  fear,  for  the  winter;  certainly 
till  after  Christmas,  and  then  it  depends  on  how 
my  bills  'turn  out'  whether  it  shall  not  be  till  spring. 
So,  meantime,  I  must  whistle  in  my  cage.  My  cage 
is  better  by  one  thing;  I  am  an  Advocate  now.  If 
you  ask  me  why  that  makes  it  better,  I  would  re- 
mind you  that  in  the  most  distressing  circumstances 
a  little  consequence  goes  a  long  way,  and  even 
bereaved  relatives  stand  on  precedence  round  the 
coffin.  I  idle  finely.  I  read  Boswell's  Life  of  John- 
son, Martin's  History  of  France,  Allan  Ramsay, 
Olivier  Basselin,  all  sorts  of  rubbish  apropos  of 
Burns,  Commines,  Juvenal  des  Ursins,  etc.  I  walk 
about  the  Parliament  House  five  forenoons  a  week, 
in  wig  and  gown;  I  have  either  a  five  or  six  mile 
walk,  or  an  hour  or  two  hard  skating  on  the  rink, 
every  afternoon,  without  fail. 

I  have  not  written  much;  but,  like  the  seaman's 
parrot  in  the  tale,  I  have  thought  a  deal.  You 
have  never,  by  the  way,  returned  me  either  Spring 
or  Beranger,  which  is  certainly  a  d — d  shame.  1 
always  comforted  myself  with  that  when  my  con- 
science pricked  me  about  a  letter  to  you.  'Thus 
conscience' — O  no,  that's  not  appropriate  in  this 
connection. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

I  say,  is  there  any  chance  of  your  coming  north 
this  year?  Mind  you  that  promise  is  now  more  re- 
spectable for  age  than  is  becoming.  "P    t     <n 


;^ET.  25]  CHARLES   BAXTER  235 


To  Charles  Baxter 

The  following  epistle  in  verse,  with  its  mixed  flavour  of  Burns 
and  Horace,  gives  a  lively  picture  of  winter  forenoons  spent  in  the 
Parliament  House: — 

[Edinburgh,  October  187. 5J 

Noo  lyart  leaves  blaw  ower  the  green, 
Red  are  the  bonny  woods  o'  Dean, 
An'  here  we're  back  in  Embro,  freen', 

To  pass  the  winter. 
Whilk  noo,  wi'  frosts  afore,  draws  in, 

An'  snaws  ahint  her. 

I've  seen's  hae'  days  to  fricht  us  a'. 
The  Pentlands  poothered  weel  wi'  snaw, 
The  ways  half-smoored  wi'  liquid  thaw, 

An'  half-congealin', 
The  snell  an'  scowtherin'  norther  blaw 

Frae  blae  Brunteelan'. 

I've  seen's  been  unco  sweir  to  sally. 
And  at  the  door-cheeks  daff  an'  dally, 
Seen's  daidle  thus  an'  shilly-shally 

For  near  a  minute — 
Sae  cauld  the  wind  blew  up  the  valley, 

The  deil  was  in  it! — 

Syne  spread  the  silk  an'  tak  the  gate. 
In  blast  an'  blaudin'  rain,  xieil  hae't! 
The  hale  toon  glintin',  stane  an'  slate, 

Wi'  cauld  an'  weet, 
An'  to  the  Court,  gin  we'se  be  late, 

Bicker  oor  feet. 


230        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [1875 

And  at  the  Court,  tae,  aft  I  saw 
Whaur  Advocates  by  twa  an'  twa 
Gang  gcsterin'  end  to  end  the  ha' 

In  weeg  an'  goon, 
To  crack  o'  what  he  wull  but  Law 

The  hale  forenoon. 

That  muckle  ha',  maist  like  a  kirk, 
I've  kent  at  braid  mid-day  sae  mirk 
Ye'd  seen  white  wcegs  an'  faces  lurk 

Like  ghaists  frae  Hell, 
But  whether  Christian  ghaists  or  Turk 

Deil  ane  could  tell. . 

The  three  fires  lunted  in  the  gloom, 
The  wind  blew  like  the  blast  o'  doom, 
The  rain  upo'  the  roof  abune 

Played  Peter  Dick — 
Ye  wad  nae'd  licht  enough  i'  the  room 

Your  teeth  to  pick! 

But,  freend,  ye  ken  how  me  an'  you, 
The  ling-lang  lanely  winter  through, 
Keep'd  a  guid  speerit  up,  an'  true 

To  lore  Horatian, 
We  aye  the  ither  bottle  drew 

To  inclination. 

Sae  let  us  in  the  comin'  days 

Stand  sicker  on  our  auncient  ways — 

The  strauchtest  road  in  a'  the  maze 

Since  Eve  ate  apples; 
•An'  let  the  winter  weet  our  cla'es^ 

We'll  weet  our  thrapples. 


AET.  25]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  237 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  two  following  letters  refer  to  the  essay  on  the  Spirit  of  Spring 
which  I  was  careless  enough  to  lose  in  the  process  of  a  change  of 
rooms  at  Cambridge.  The  Petits  Foemes  en  Prose  were  attempts, 
not  altogether  successful,  in  the  form  though  not  in  the  spirit  of 
Baudelaire. 

Swanston  [Autumn  1875] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Thanks.  Only  why  don't  you 
tell  me  if  I  can  get  my  Spring  printed?  I  want  to 
print  it;  because  it's  nice,  and  genuine  to  boot,  and 
has  got  less  side  on  than  my  other  game.  Besides 
I  want  coin  badly. 

I  am  writing  Petits  Poemes  en  Prose.  Their  prin- 
cipal resemblance  to  Baudelaire's  is  that  they  are 
rather  longer  and  not  quite  so  good.  They  are  ve-ry 
cle-ver  (words  of  two  syllables) ,  O  so  aw-f ul-ly  cle-ver 
(words  of  three),  O  so  dam-na-bly  cle-ver  (words  of  a 
devil  of  a  number  of  syllables) .  I  have  written  fifteen 
in  a  fortnight.  I  have  also  written  some  beautiful 
poetry.  I  would  like  a  cake  and  a  cricket-bat;  and 
a  passkey  to  Heaven  if  you  please,  and  as  much 
money  as  my  friend  the  Baron  Rothschild  can  spare. 
I  used  to  look  across  to  Rothschild  of  a  morning 
when  we  were  brushing  our  hair,  and  say — (this  is 
quite  true,  only  we  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  and  though  I  used  to  look  over  I  cannot  say 
I  ever  detected  the  beggar,  he  feared  to  meet  my 
eagle  eye) — well,  I  used  to  say  to  him,  'Rothschild, 
old  man,  lend  us  five  hundred  francs,'  and  it  is 
characteristic  of  Rothy's  dry  humour  that  he  used 
never  to  reply  when  it  was  a  question  of  money.  He 
was   a   very   humourous   dog   indeed,   was    Rothy. 


238        LKTTLRS  OF  S'lKVENSON       [,875 

Heigh-ho!    those    happy   old   days.     Funny,   funny 
fellow,  the  dear  old  Baron. 

How's  that  for  genuine  American  wit  and  humour? 
Take  notice  of  this  in  your  answer;  say,  for  in- 
stance, 'Even  although  the  letter  had  been  unsigned, 
I  could  have  had  no  difficulty  in  guessing  who  was 
my  dear,  lively,  witty  correspondent.  Yours,  Letitia 
Languish.' 

O! — my  mind  has  given  way.  I  have  gone  into  a 
mild,  babbling,  sunny  idiocy.  I  shall  buy  a  Jew's 
harp  and  sit  by  the  roadside  with  a  woman's  bonnet 
on  my  manly  head  begging  my  honest  livelihood. 
Meantime,  adieu. 

I  would  send  you  some  of  these  PP.  Poemes  of 
mine,  only  I  know  you  would  never  acknowledge 
receipt  or  return  them. — Yours,  and  Rothschild's, 

R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  Autumn  1875] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Fous  ne  me  gombrennez  pas. 
Angry  with  you?  No.  Is  the  thing  lost?  Well,  so 
be  it.  There  is  one  masterpiece  fewer  in  the  world. 
The  world  can  ill  spare  it,  but  I,  sir,  I  (and  here  I 
strike  my  hollow  bosom  so  that  it  resounds)  I  am 
full  of  this  sort  of  bauble;  I  am  made  of  it;  it  comes 
to  me,  sir,  as  the  desire  to  sneeze  comes  upon  poor 
ordinary  devils  on  cold  days,  when  they  should  be 
getting  out  of  bed  and  into  their  horrid  cold  tubs 
by  the  light  of  a  seven  o'clock  candle,  with  the  dis- 
mal seven  o'clock  frost-flowers  all  over  the  window. 


AET.  25]  MRS.  SITWELL  239 

Show  Stephen  what  you  please;  if  you  could  show 
him  how  to  give  me  money,  you  would  oblige,  sin- 
cerely yours,  R.  L.  S. 

I  have  a  scroll  of  Springtime  somewhere,  but  I 
know  that  it  is  not  in  very  good  order,  and  do  not 
feel  myself  up  to  very  much  grind  over  it.  I  am 
damped  about  Springtime,  that's  the  truth  of  it. 
It  might  have  been  four  or  five  quid! 

Sir,  I  shall  shave  my  head,  if  this  goes  on.  All 
men  take  a  pleasure  to  gird  at  me.  The  laws  of 
nature  are  in  open  war  with  me.  The  wheel  of  a 
dog-cart  took  the  toes  off  my  new  boots.  Gout  has 
set  in  with  extreme  rigour,  and  cut  me  out  of  the 
cheap  refreshment  of  beer.  I  leant  my  back  against 
an  oak,  I  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree,  but  first  it 
bent,  and  syne— it  lost  the  Spirit  of  Springtime,  and 
so  did  Professor  Sidney  Colvin,  Trinity  College,  to 
me. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Along  with  this,  I  send  you  some  P.  P.  P.'s;  if 
you  lose  them,  you  need  not  seek  to  look  upon  my 
face  again.  Do,  for  God's  sake,  answer  me  about 
them  also;  it  is  a  horrid  thing  for  a  fond  architect 
to  find  his  monuments  received  in  silence. — Yours, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh,  November  14,  1875] 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — Since  I  got  your  letter  I  have 
been  able  to  do  a  little  more  work,  and  I  have  been 
much   better   contented   with   myself;    but   I   can't 


240        LK'ITKRS  OF   STKVKNSON      [1875 

get  away,  that  is  absolutely  prevented  by  the  state 
of  my  purse  and  my  debts,  which,  I  may  say,  are 
red  like  crimson.  I  don't  know  how  I  am  to  clear 
my  hands  of  them,  nor  when,  not  before  Christmas 
anyway.  Yesterday  I  was  twenty-five;  so  please 
wish  me  many  happy  returns — directly.  This  one 
was  n(jt  //;/iiappy  anyway.  I  have  got  back  a 
good  deal  into  my  old  random,  little-thought  way 
of  life,  and  do  not  care  whether  I  read,  write,  speak, 
or  walk,  so  long  as  I  do  something.  I  have  a 
great  delight  in  this  wheel-skating;  I  have  made 
great  advance  in  it  of  late,  can  do  a  good  many 
amusing  things  (I  mean  amusing  in  my  sense — 
amusing  to  do).  You  know,  I  lose  all  my  fore- 
noons at  Court!  So  it  is,  but  the  time  passes;  it 
is  a  great  pleasure  to  sit  and  hear  cases  argued  or 
advised.  This  is  quite  autobiographical,  but  I  feel 
as  if  it  was  some  time  since  we  met,  and  I  can  tell 
you,  I  am  glad  to  meet  you  again.  In  every  way, 
you  see,  but  that  of  work  the  world  goes  well  with 
me.  My  health  is  better  than  ever  it  was  before; 
I  get  on  without  any  jar,  nay,  as  if  there  never  had 
been  a  jar,  with  my  parents.  If  it  weren't  about 
that  work,  I'd  be  happy.  But  the  fact  is,  I  don't 
think— the  fact  is,  I'm  going  to  trust  in  Providence 
about  work.  If  I  could  get  one  or  two  pieces  I 
hate  out 'of  my  way  all  would  be  well,  I  think;  but 
these  obstacles  disgust  me,  and  as  I  know  I  ought 
to  do  them  first,  I  don't  do  anything.  I  must  finish 
this  off,  or  I'll  just  lose  another  day.  I'll  try  to 
write  again  soon. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 


AET.  251  MRS.   SITWELL  241 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  review  of  Robert  Browning's  Inn  Album  here  mentioned 
appears  in  Vanity  Fair,  Dec.  ii,  1875.  The  matter  of  the  poem  is 
praised;   the  'slating'  is  only  for  the  form  and  metres. 

[Edinburgh,  December  1875] 

Well,  I  am  hardy!  Here  I  am  in  the  midst  of 
this  great  snowstorm,  sleeping  with  my  window 
open  and  smoking  in  my  cold  tub  in  the  morning 
so  as  it  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see.  Moreover 
I  am  in  pretty  good  form  otherwise.  Fontainebleau 
lags;  it  has  turned  out  more  difficult  than  I  ex- 
pected in  some  places,  but  there  is  a  deal  of  it 
ready,  and  (I  think)  straight. 

I  was  at  a  concert  on  Saturday  and  heard  Halle 
and  Norman  Neruda  play  that  Sonata  of  Beethoven's 
you  remember,  and  I  felt  very  funny.  But  I  went 
and  took  a  long  spanking  walk  in  the  dark  and 
got  quite  an  appetite  for  dinner.  I  did;  that's  not 
bragging. 

As  you  say,  a  concert  wants  to  be  gone  to  with 
someone,  and  I  know  who.  I  have  done  rather  an 
amusing  paragraph  or  two  for  Vanity  Fair  on  the 
Inn  Album.  I  have  slated  R.  B.  pretty  handsomely. 
I  am  in  a  desperate  hurry;  so  good-bye. — Ever  your 
faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


242       LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      i.s;^ 


To  Mrs.  de  Mattos 

The  state  of  health  and  spirits  mentioned  in  the  last  soon  gave 
way  to  one  of  the  fits  of  depression,  frequent  with  him  in  Edinburgh 
winters.  In  the  foilowinj^  letter  he  unbosoms  himself  to  a  favourite 
cousin  (sister  to  R.  A.  .Nl.  Stevenson). 

[Edinburgh,  January  1876] 

MY  DEAR  KATHARINE, — Thc  prisoner  reserved 
his  defence.  He  has  been  seedy,  however;  princi- 
pally sick  of  the  family  evil,  despondency;  the  sun 
is  gone  out  utterly;  and  the  breath  of  the  people 
of  this  city  lies  about  as  a  sort  of  damp,  unwhole- 
some fog,  in  which  we  go  walking  with  bowed  hearts. 
If  I  understand  what  is  a  contrite  spirit,  I  have  one; 
it  is  to  feel  that  you  are  a  small  jar,  or  rather,  as  I 
feel  myself,  a  very  large  jar,  of  pottery  work  rather 
mal  reussi,  and  to  make  every  allowance  for  the 
potter  (I  beg  pardon;  Potter  with  a  capital  P.) 
on  his  ill-success,  and  rather  wish  he  would  reduce 
you  as  soon  as  possible  to  potsherds.  However, 
there  are  many  things  to  do  yet  before  we  go. 

Grossir  la  pCite  universelle 
Faite  dcs  jorwrs  que  Dim  fond. 

For  instance,  I  have  never  been  in  a  revolution 
yet.  I  pray  God  I  may  be  in  one  at  the  end,  if  I 
am  to  make  a  mucker.  The  best  way  to  make  a 
mucker  is  to  have  your  back  set  against  a  wall  and  a 
few  lead  pellets  whiffed  into  you  in  a  moment,  while 
yet  you  are  all  in  a  heat  and  a  fury  of  combat,  with 
drums  sounding  on  all  sides,  and  people  crying,  and 
a  general  smash  like  the  infernal  orchestration  at  the 
end  of  the  Huguenots.  .  .  . 


AET.  26]  MRS.   SITWELL  243 

Please  pardon  me  for  having  been  so  long  of 
writing,  and  show  your  pardon  by  writing  soon  to 
me;  it  will  be  a  kindness,  for  I  am  sometimes  very 
dull.  Edinburgh  is  much  changed  for  the  worse 
by  the  absence  of  Bob;  and  this  damned  weather 
weighs  on  me  like  a  curse.  Yesterday,  or  the  day 
before,  there  came  so  black  a  rain  squall  that  I  was 
frightened — what  a  child  would  call  frightened,  you 
know,  for  want  of  a  better  word — although  in  real- 
ity it  has  nothing  to  do  with  fright.  I  lit  the  gas 
and  sat  cowering  in  my  chair  until  it  went  away 
again. — Ever  yours, 

O,  I  am  trying  my  hand  at  a  novel  just  now;  it 
may  interest  you  to  know,  I  am  bound  to  say  I  do 
not  think  it  will  be  a  success.  However,  it's  an 
amusement  for  the  moment,  and  work,  work  is  your 
only  ally  against  the  'bearded  people'  that  squat 
upon  their  hams  in  the  dark  places  of  life  and  em- 
brace people  horribly  as  they  go  by.  God  save  us 
from  the  bearded  people!  to  think  that  the  sun  is 
still  shining  in  some  happy  places! 

To  Mrs.  Sitv^ell 

[Edinburgh,  January  1876] 

...  Our  weather  continues  as  it  was,  bitterly 
cold,  and  raining  often.  There  is  not  much  pleasure 
in  life  certainly  as  it  stands  at  present.  Nous  nHrons 
plus  au  hois,  helas! 

I  meant  to  write  some  more  last  night,  but  my 
father  was  ill  and  it  put  it  out  of  my  way.  He  is 
better  this  morning. 


244        LETTERS   OE   STEVENSON       [.876 

If  I  liad  written  last  night,  I  should  have  written 
a  lot.  But  this  morning  I  am  so  dreadfully  tired 
and  stupid  that  I  can  say  nothing.  I  was  down 
at  Lcith  in  the  afternoon.  God  bless  me,  what 
horrid  women  I  saw;  I  never  knew  what  a  plain- 
looking  race  it  was  before.  I  was  sick  at  heart  with 
the'  looks  of  them.  And  the  children,  filthy  and 
ragged!     And  the  smells!     And  the  fat  black  mud! 

My  soul  was  full  of  disgust  ere  I  got  back.  And 
yet  the  ships  were  beautiful  to  see,  as  they  are 
always;  and  on  the  pier  there  was  a  clean  cold  wind 
that  smelt  a  litde  of  the  sea,  though  it  came  down 
the  Firth,  and  the  sunset  had  a  certain  eclal  and 
warmth.  Perhaps  if  I  could  get  more  work  done, 
I  should  be  in  a  better  trim  to  enjoy  filthy  streets 
and  people  and  cold  grim  weather;  but  I  don't 
much  feel  as  if  it  was  what  I  would  have  chosen.  I 
am  tempted  every  day  of  my  life  to  go  ofT  on  an- 
other walking  tour.  I  like  that  better  than  any- 
thing else  that  I  know. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

Foniainehleau  is  the  paper  called  Forest  Notes  which  appeared 
in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  in  May  of  this  year  (reprinted  in  Essays 
of  Travel).  The  Winter's  Walk,  as  far  as  it  goes  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  his  essays  of  the  Road,  was  for  some  reason  never 
finished;  reprinted  ibidem.  , 

[Edinburgh,  February  1876] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — 15/.  I  have  sent  Fontainebleau 
long  ago,  long  ago.  And  Leslie  Stephen  is  worse 
than  tepid  about  it— liked  'some  j)arts'  of  it  'very 
well,'  the  son  of  Belial.  ISIoreover,  he  proposes  to 
shorten  it;  and  I,  who  want  money,  and  money  soon, 


AET.  26]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  245 

and  not  glory  and  the  illustration  of  the  English 
language,  I  feel  as  if  my  poverty  were  going  to 
consent. 

2nd.  I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  after  my  walk.  I  am 
four  inches  bigger  about  the  waist  than  last  July! 
There,  that's  your  prophecy  did  that.  I  am  on 
Charles  of  Orleans  now,  but  I  don't  know  where  to 
send  him.  Stephen  obviously  spews  me  out  of  his 
mouth,  and  I  spew  him  out  of  mine,  so  help  me! 
A  man  who  doesn't  like  my  Fontainehleaul  His 
head  must  be  turned. 

T^rd.  If  ever  you  do  come  across  my  Spring  (I  beg 
your  pardon  for  referring  to  it  again,  but  I  don't 
want  you  to  forget)  send  it  off  at  once. 

^th.  I  went  to  Ayr,  Maybole,  Girvan,  Ballantrae, 
Stranraer,  Glenluce,  and  Wigton.  I  shall  make  an 
article  of  it  some  day  soon,  A  Winter^ s  Walk  in  Car- 
rick  and  Galloway.     I  had  a  good  time. — Yours, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

'Baynes'  in  the  following  is  Stevenson's  good  friend  and  mine, 
the  late  Professor  Spencer  Baynes,  who  was  just  relinquishing  the 
editorship  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  by  reason  of  ill-health. 

[Swanston,  July  1876] 

Here  I  am,  here,  and  very  well  too.  I  am  glad 
you  liked  Walkifig  Tours;  I  like  it  too;  I  think  it's 
prose;  and  I  own  with  contrition  that  I  have  not 
always  written  prose.  However,  I  am  'endeavour- 
ing after  new  obedience'  (Scot.  Shorter  Catechism). 
You  don't  say  aught  of  Forest  Notes,  which  is  kind. 
There  is  one,  if  you  will,  that  was  too  sweet  to  be 
wholesome. 


246        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [187^ 

I  am  at  Charles  d' Orleans.  About  fifteen  Corn 
hill  pages  have  already  coul^'d  from  under  my 
facile  plume— no,  I  mean  eleven,  fifteen  of  MS. — 
and  we  are  not  much  more  than  half-way  through, 
Charles  and  I;  but  he's  a  pleasant  com[)anion.  My 
health  is  very  well;  I  am  in  a  fine  exercisy  state. 
Baynes  is  gone  to  London;  if  you  see  him,  inquire 
about  my  Burns.  They  have  sent  me  £^,  5s.  for 
it,  which  has  mollified  me  horrid.  ^^5,  5s.  is  a  good 
deal  to  pay  for  a  read  of  it  in  MS.;  I  can't  complain. 
— Yours,  ■ 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

This  dates  from  just  before  the  canoeing  trip  recounted  in  the 
Inland  Voyage. 

[Swanston,  July  1876] 

Well,  here  I  am  at  last;  it  is  a  Sunday,  blowing 
hard,  with  a  grey  sky  with  the  leaves  flying;  and  I 
have  nothing  to  say.  I  ought  to  have  no  doubt; 
since  it's  so  long  since  last  I  wrote;  but  there  are 
times  when  people's  lives  stand  still.  If  you  were 
to  ask  a  squirrel  in  a  mechanical  cage  for  his  auto- 
biography, it  would  not  be  very  gay.  Every  spin 
may  be  amusing  in  itself,  but  is  mighty  like  the  last; 
you  see  I  compare  myself  to  a  lighthearted  animal; 
and  indeed  I  have  been  in  a  very  good  humour. 
For  the  weather  has  been  passable;  I  have  taken 
a  deal  of  exercise,  and  done  some  work.  But  f  have 
the  strangest  repugnance  for  writing;  indeed,  I 
have  nearly  got  myself  persuaded  into  the  notion 
that  letters  don't  arrive,  in  order  to  salve  my  con- 
science for  never  sending  them  ofT.  I'm  reading  a 
great  deal  of  fifteenth  century;   Trial  of  Joan  of  Arc, 


AET.  26]  MRS.   SITWELL  247 

Paston  Letters,  Basin,^  etc.,  also  Boswell  daily  by 
way  of  a  Bible;  I  mean  to  read  Boswell  now  until 
the  day  I  die.  And  now  and  again  a  bit  of  Pil- 
grim's Progress.  Is  that  all  ?  Yes,  I  think  that's  all. 
I  have  a  thing  in  proof  for  the  Cornhill  called  Vir- 
ginibus  Puerisque.  Charles  of  Orleans  is  again  laid 
aside,  but  in  a  good  state  of  furtherance  this  time. 
A  paper  called  A  Defence  of  Idlers  (which  is  really  a 
defence  of  R.  L.  S.)  is  in  a  good  way.  So,  you  see, 
I  am  busy  in  a  tumultuous,  knotless  sort  of  fashion; 
and  as  I  say,  I  take  lots  of  exercise,  and  I'm  as 
brown  as  a  berry. 

This  is  the  first  letter  I've  written  for — O  I  don't 
know  how  long. 

July  3o//i.-^This  is,  I  suppose,  three  weeks  after 
I  began.     Do,  please,  forgive  me. 

To  the  Highlands,  first,  to  the  Jenkins',  then  to 
Antwerp;  thence,  by  canoe  with  Simpson,  to  Paris 
and  Grez  (on  the  Loing,  and  an  old  acquaintance 
of  mine  on  the  skirts  of  Fontainebleau)  to  complete 
our  cruise  next  spring  (if  we're  all  alive  and  jolly) 
by  Loing  and  Loire,  Saone  and  Rhone  to  the  Med- 
iterranean. It  should  make  a  jolly  book  of  gossip, 
I  imagine. 

God  bless  you.         ^i  t  o 

•'  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

P.S. — Virginihus  Puerisque  is  in  August  Cornhill. 
Charles  of  Orleans  is  finished,  and  sent  to  Stephen; 
Idlers  ditto,  and  sent  to  Grove;  but  I've  no  word  of 
either.     So  I've  not  been  idle.  td    t     c 

'  Thomas  Basin  or  Bazin,  the  historian  of  Charles  VIII  and 
Louis  XI. 


248       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.876 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

In  a  well-known  passage  of  the  Inland  Voyage,  the  following 
incident  is  related  to  the  same  purport,  but  in  another  style: — 

[Cliauny,  A  isne  September  1876] 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Here  I  am,  you  see;  and  if 
you  will  take  to  a  map,  you  will  observe  I  am  already 
more  than  two  doors  from  Antwerp,  whence  I  started. 
I  have  fought  it  through  under  the  worst  weather  I 
ever  saw  in  France;  I  have  been  wet  through  nearly 
every  day  of  travel  since  the  second  (inclusive);  be- 
sides this,  I  have  had  to  tight  against  pretty  mouldy 
health;  so  that,  on  the  whole,  the  essayist  and  re- 
viewer has  shown,  I  think,  some  pluck.  Four  days 
ago  I  was  not  a  hundred  miles  from  being  miserably 
drowned,  to  the  immense  regret  of  a  large  circle  of 
friends  and  the  permanent  impoverishment  of  British 
Essayism  and  Reviewery.  My  boat  culbutted  me 
under  a  fallen  tree  in  a  very  rapid  current:  and  I 
was  a  good  while  before  I  got  on  to  the  outside  of 
that  fallen  tree;  rather  a  better  while  than  I  cared 
about.  When  I  got  up,  I  lay  some  time  on  my 
belly,  panting,  and  exuded  fluid.  All  my  symptoms 
jusqu*  ici  are  trifling.  But  I've  a  damned  sore 
throat. — Yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 


AET.  27]  MRS.   SITWELL  249 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Part  of  The  Hair  Trunk  still  exists  in  MS.  It  contains  some 
tolerable  fooling,  but  is  chiefly  interesting  from  the  fact  that  the 
seat  of  the  proposed  Bohemian  colony  from  Cambridge  is  to  be 
in  the  Navigator  Islands;  showing  the  direction  which  had  been 
given  to  Stevenson's  thoughts  by  the  conversation  of  the  New 
Zealand  ofl&cial,  Mr.  Seed,  two  years  before. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh,  May  1877 

...  A  PERFECT  chorus  of  repudiation  is  sounding 
in  my  ears;  and  although  you  say  nothing,  I  know 
you  must  be  repudiating  me,  all  the  same.  Write  I 
cannot — there's  no  good  mincing  matters,  a  letter 
frightens  me  worse  than  the  devil;  and  I  am  just  as 
unfit  for  correspondence  as  if  I  had  never  learned 
the  three  R.'s. 

Let  me  give  my  news  quickly  before  I  relapse 
into  my  usual  idleness.  I  have  a  terror  lest  I  should 
relapse  before  I  get  this  finished.  Courage,  R.  L.  S. 
On  Leslie  Stephen's  advice,  I  gave  up  the  idea  of  a 
book  of  essays.  He  said  he  didn't  imagine  I  was 
rich  enough  for  such  an  amusement;  and  moreover, 
whatever  was  worth  publication  was  worth  republi- 
cation. So  the  best  of  those  I  had  ready.  An  Apology 
for  Idlers,  is  in  proof  for  the  Cornhill.  I  have  Vil- 
lon to  do  for  the  same  magazine,  but  God  knows 
when  I'll  get  it  done,  for  drums,  trumpets — I'm 
engaged  upon — trumpets,  drums — a  novel!  'The 
Hair  Trunk;  or,  the  Ideal  Commonwealth.' 
It  is  a  most  absurd  story  of  a  lot  of  young  Cambridge 
fellows  who  are  going  to  found  a  new  society,  with 
no  ideas  on  the  subject,  and  nothing  but  Bohemian 
tastes  in  the  place  of  ideas;   and  who  are — well,  I 


250        LKTTKRS  OF  STEVENSON      [.877 

can't  cxj)lain  about  the  trunk — it  would  take  too 
long — but  the  trunk  is  the  fun  of  it — everybody 
steals  it;  ])urjj;lary,  marine  fight,  life  on  desert  island 
on  west  coast  of  Scotland,  sloops,  etc.  The  first 
scene  where  they  make  their  grand  schemes  and 
get  drunk  is  supposed  to  be  very  funny,  by  Henley. 
I  really  saw  him  laugh  over  it  until  he  cried. 

Please  write  to  me,  although  I  deserve  it  so  lit- 
tle, and  show  a  Christian  spirit. — Ever  your  faithful 

'  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  August  1877] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I'm  to  be  whipped  away  to- 
morrow to  Penzance,  where  at  the  post-office  a 
letter  will  find  me  glad  and  grateful.  I  am  well, 
but  somewhat  tired  out  with  overwork.  I  have  only 
been  home  a  fortnight  this  morning,  and  I  have 
already  written  to  the  tune  of  forty-five  Cornhhill 
pages  and  upwards.  The  most  of  it  was  only  very 
laborious  re-casting  and  re-modelling,  it  is  true;  but 
it  took  it  out  of  me  famously,  all  the  same. 

Temple  Bar  appears  to  like  my  Villon,  so  I  may 
count  on  another  market  there  in  the  future,  I  hope. 
At  least,  I  am  going  to  put  it  to  the  proof  at  once, 
and  send  another  story,  The  Sire  de  Maletroil^s 
Mousetrap:  a  true  novel,  in  the  old  sense;  all  unities 
preserved  moreover,  if  that's  anything,  and  I  believe 
with  some  little  merits;  not  so  clever  perhaps  as  the 
last,  but  sounder  and  more  natural. 

My  Villon  is  out  this  month;    I  should  so  much 


AET.  .7]  MRS.    SITWELL  251' 

like  to  know  what  you  think  of  it.  Stephen  has  writ- 
ten to  me  apropos  of  Idlers,  that  something  more  in 
that  vein  would  be  agreeable  to  his  views.  From 
Stephen  I  count  that  a  devil  of  a  lot. 

I  am  honestly  so  tired  this  morning,  that  I  hope 
you  will  take  this  for  what  it's  worth  and  give  me  an 
answer  in  peace. — Ever  yours, 

Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Neither  the  Stepfather's  Story  nor  the  St.  Michael's  Mounts  essay 
here  mentioned,  ever,  to  my  knowledge,  came  into  being. 

[Penzance,  August  1877] 

.  .  .  You  will  do  well  to  stick  to  your  burn,  that 
is  a  delightful  life  you  sketch,  and  a  very  fountain 
of  health.  I  wish  I  could  live  like  that,  but,  alas! 
it  is  just  as  well  I  got  my  'Idlers'  written  and  done 
with,  for  I  have  quite  lost  all  power  of  resting.  I 
have  a  goad  in  my  flesh  continually,  pushing  me 
to  work,  work,  work.  I  have  an  essay  pretty  well 
through  for  Stephen;  a  story,  The  Sire  de  Male- 
troWs  Mousetrap,  with  which  I  shall  try  Temple 
Bar;  another  story,  in  the  clouds.  The  Stepfather^s 
Story,  most  pathetic  work  of  a  high  morality  or 
immorality,  according  to  point  of  view;  and  lastly, 
also  in  the  clouds,  or  perhaps  a  little  farther  away, 
an  essay  on  The  Two  St.  MichaeVs  Moimts,  histori- 
cal and  picturesque;  perhaps  if  it  didn't  come  too 
long,  I  might  throw  in  the  Bass  Rock,  and  call  it 
Three  Sea  Fortalices,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
You  see   how  work   keeps  bubbling   in   my    Tiind. 


252       LETTERS  0¥  STEVENSON      [.877 

Then  I  shall  do  another  fifteenth  century  paper 
this  autumn — La  Sale  and  Petit  JeJian  de  Sainlre, 
which  is  a  kind  of  fifteenth  century  Sandford  and 
Merlon,  ending  in  horrid  immoral  cynicism,  as  if 
the  author  had  got  tired  of  being  didactic,  and  just 
had  a  good  wallow  in  the  mire  to  wind  up  with  and 
indemnify  himself  for  so  much  restraint. 

Cornwall  is  not  much  to  my  taste,  being  as  bleak 
as  the  bleakest  parts  of  Scotland,  and  nothing  like 
so  pointed  and  characteristic.  It  has  a  flavour  of 
its  own,  though,  which  I  may  try  and  catch,  if  I  find 
the  space,  in  the  proposed  article.  Will  6'  the  Mill 
I  sent,  red  hot,  to  Stephen  in  a  fit  of  haste,  and  have 
not  yet  had  an  answer.  I  am  quite  prepared  for  a 
refusal.  But  I  begin  to  have  more  hope  in  the  story 
line,  and  that  should  improve  my  income  any- 
way. I  am  glad  you  liked  Villon;  some  of  it  was 
not  as  good  as  it  ought  to  be,  but  on  the  whole  it 
seems  pretty  vivid,  and  the  features  strongly  marked. 
Vividness  and  not  style  is  now  my  line;  style  is  all 
very  well,  but  vividness  is  the  real  line  of  country; 
if  a  thing  is  meant  to  be  read,  it  seems  just  as  well 
to  try  and  make  it  readable.  I  am  such  a  dull  per- 
son now,  I  cannot  keep  of!  my  own  immortal  works. 
Indeed,  they  are  scarcely  ever  out  of  my  head.  And 
yet  I  value  them  less  and  less  every  day.  But  occu- 
pation is  the  great  thing;  so  that  a  man  should 
have  his  life  in  his  own  pocket,  and  never  be  thrown 
out  of  work  by  anything.  I  am  glad  to  hear  you 
are  better.  I  must  stop — going  to  Land's  End. — 
Always  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


AET.  21]     A.  PATCHETT   MARTIN  253 


To  A.  Patchett  Martin 

This  correspondent,  living  at  the  time  in  Australia,  was,  I  be- 
lieve, the  first  to  write  and  seek  Stevenson's  acquaintance  from 
admiration  of  his  work,  meaning  especially  the  Cornhill  essays  of 
the  Virginibus  Puerisque  series  so  far  as  they  had  yet  appeared. 
The  'present'  herein  referred  to  is  Mr.  Martin's  volume  called 
A  Sweet  Girl  Graduate  and  other  Poems  (Melbourne,  1876). 

[1877] 

DEAR  SIR, — It  would  not  be  very  easy  for  me  to 
give  you  any  idea  of  the  pleasure  I  found  in  your 
present.  People  who  write  for  the  magazines  (prob- 
ably from  a  guilty  conscience)  are  apt  to  suppose 
their  works  practically  unpublished.  It  seems  un- 
likely that  any  one  would  take  the  trouble  to  read 
a  little  paper  buried  among  so  many  others;  and 
reading  it,  read  it  with  any  attention  or  pleasure. 
And  so,  I  can  assure  you,  your  little  book,  coming 
from  so  far,  gave  me  all  the  pleasure  and  encourage- 
ment in  the  world. 

I  suppose  you  know  and  remember  Charles 
Lamb's  essay  on  distant  correspondents?  Well,  I 
was  somewhat  of  his  way  of  thinking  about  my  mild 
productions.  I  did  not  indeed  imagine  they  were 
read,  and  (I  suppose  I  may  say)  enjoyed  right 
round  upon  the  other  side  of  the  big  Football  we 
have  the  honour  to  inhabit.  And  as  your  present 
was  the  first  sign  to  the  contrary,  I  feel  I  have  been 
very  ungrateful  in  not  writing  earlier  to  acknowl- 
edge the  receipt.  I  dare  say,  however,  you  hate 
writing  letters  as  much  as  I  can  do  myself  (for  if  you 
like  my  article,  I  may  presume  other  points  of  sym- 
pathy between  us) ;  and  on  this  hypothesis  you  will 
be  ready  to  forgive  me  the  delay. 


2  54        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.877 

I  may  mention  with  regard  to  the  piece  of  verses 
called  Such  is  Life  that  I  am  not  the  only  one  on 
this  side  of  the  Football  aforesaid  to  think  it  a  good 
and  bright  piece  of  work,  and  recognised  a  link  of 
sympathy  with  the  poets  who  'play  in  hostelries  at 
euchre.' — Believe  me,  dear  sir,  yours  truly, 

R.  L.  S. 


To  A.  Patchett  Martin 

17  Herioi  Row,  Edinburgh  [December  1877] 

MY  DEAR  SIR, — I  am  afraid  you  must  already  have 
condemned  me  for  a  very  idle  fellow  truly.  Here  it 
is  more  than  two  months  since  I  received  your  letter; 
I  had  no  fewer  than  three  journals  to  acknowledge; 
and  never  a  sign  upon  my  part.  If  you  have  seen 
a  Cornhill  paper  of  mine  upon  idling,  you  will  be  in- 
clined to  set  it  all  down  to  that.  But  you  will  not 
be  doing  me  justice.  Indeed,  I  have  had  a  summer 
so  troubled  that  I  have  had  little  leisure  and  still  less 
inclination  to  write  letters.  I  was  keeping  the  devil 
at  bay  with  all  my  disposable  activities;  and  more 
than  once  I  thought  he  had  me  by  the  throat.  The 
odd  conditions  of  our  acquaintance  enable  me  to  say 
more  to  you  than  I  would  to  a  person  who  lived  at 
my  elbow.  And  besides,  I  am  too  much  pleased  and 
flattered  at  our  correspondence  not  to  go  as  far  as  I 
can  to  set  myself  right  in  your  eyes. 

In  this  damnable  confusion  (I  beg  pardon)  I  have 
lost  all  my  possessions,  or  near  about,  and  quite 
lost  all  my  wits.  I  wish  I  could  lay  my  hands  on 
the  numbers  of  the  Re\'iew,  for  I  know  I  wished 


AET.  27]     A.    PATCHETT   MARTIN  255 

to  say  something  on  that  head  more  particularly 
than  I  can  from  memory;  but  where  they  have  es- 
caped to,  only  time  or  chance  can  show.  However, 
I  can  tell  you  so  far,  that  I  was  very  much  pleased 
with  the  article  on  Bret  Harte;  it  seemed  to  me  just, 
clear,  and  to  the  point.  I  agreed  pretty  well  with 
all  you  said  about  George  Eliot:  a  high,  but,  may 
we  not  add? — a  rather  dry  lady.  Did  you — I  for- 
get— did  you  have  a  kick  at  the  stern  works  of  that 
melancholy  puppy  and  humbug  Daniel  Deronda 
himself? — the  Prince  of  Prigs;  the  literary  abomina- 
tion of  desolation  in  the  way  of  manhood;  a  type 
which  is  enough  to  make  a  man  forswear  the  love 
of  women,  if  that  is  how  it  must  be  gained.  .  .  . 
Hats  off  all  the  same,  you  understand:  a  woman  of 
genius. 

Of  your  poems  I  have  myself  a  kindness  for  Noll 
and  Nell,  although  I  don't  think  you  have  made  it 
as  good  as  you  ought:  verse  five  is  surely  not  quite 
melodious.  I  confess  I  like  the  Sonnet  in  the  last 
number  of  the  Review — the  Sonnet  to  England. 

Please,  if  you  have  not,  and  I  don't  suppose  you 
have,  already  read  it,  institute  a  search  in  all  Mel- 
bourne for  one  of  the  rarest  and  certainly  one  of 
the  best  of  books — Clarissa  Harlowe.  For  any  man 
who  takes  an  interest  in  the  problems  of  the  two 
sexes,  that  book  is  a  perfect  mine  of  documents. 
And  it  is  written,  sir,  with  the  pen  of  an  angel. 
Miss  Howe  and  Lovelace,  words  cannot  tell  how  good 
they  are!  And  the  scene  where  Clarissa  beards  her 
family,  with  her  fan  going  all  the  while;  and  some 
of  the  quarrel  scenes  between  her  and  Lovelace; 


256       LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.877 

and  the  scene  where  Colonel  Harden  goes  to  Mr. 
Hall,  with  Lord  M.  trying  to  compose  matters,  and 
the  Colonel  with  his  eternal  'fmcst  woman  in  the 
world,'  and  the  inimitable  affirmation  of  Mobray — 
nothing,  nothing  could  be  better!  You  will  bless 
me  when  you  read  it  for  this  recommendation;  but, 
indeed,  I  can  do  nothing  but  recommend  Clarissa. 
I  am  like  that  Frenchman  of  the  eighteenth  century 
who  discovered  Habakkuk,  and  would  give  no  one 
peace  about  that  respectable  Hebrew.  For  my  part, 
I  never  was  able  to  get  over  his  eminently  respect- 
able name;  Isaiah  is  the  boy,  if  you  must  have 
a  prophet,  no  less.  About  Clarissa,  I  meditate  a 
choice  work:  A  Dialogue  on  Man,  Woman,  and 
'Clarissa  Harlowe.^  It  is  to  be  so  clever  that  no 
array  of  terms  can  give  you  any  idea;  and  very 
likely  that  particular  array  in  which  I  shall  finally 
embody  it,  less  than  any  other. 

Do  you  know,  my  dear  sir,  what  I  like  best  in 
your  letter?  The  egotism  for  which  you  thought 
necessary  to  apologise.  I  am  a  rogue  at  egotism 
myself;  and  to  be  plain,  I  have  rarely  or  never 
liked  any  man  who  was  not.  The  first  step  to  dis- 
covering the  beauties  of  God's  universe  is  usually  a 
(perhaps  partial)  apprehension  of  such  of  them  as 
adorn  our  own  characters.  When  I  see  a  man  who 
does  not  think  pretty  well  of  himself,  I  always  suspect 
him  of  being  in  the  right.  And  besides,  if  he  does 
not  like  himself,  whom  he  has  seen,  how  is  he  ever 
to  like  one  whom  he  never  can  see  but  in  dim  and 
artificial  presentments? 

I  cordially  reciprocate  your  offer  of  a  welcome;  it 


AET.  28J  SIDNEY  COLVIN  257 

shall  be  at  least  a  warm  one.  Are  you  not  my  first, 
my  only,  admirer — a  dear  tie?  Besides,  you  are  a 
man  of  sense,  and  you  treat  me  as  one  by  writing 
to  me  as  you  do,  and  that  gives  me  pleasure  also. 
Please  continue  to  let  me  see  your  work.  I  have 
one  or  two  things  coming  out  in  the  Cornhill:  a 
story  called  The  Sire  de  MaUtroWs  Door  in  Temple 
Bar;  and  a  series  of  articles  on  Edinburgh  in  the 
Portfolio;  but  I  don't  know  if  these  last  fly  all  the 
way  to  Melbourne. — Yours  very  truly, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  Inland  Voyaj^e,  it  must  be  remembered,  at  this  time  just  put 
into  the  publisher's  hands,  was  the  author's  first  book.  The  '  Crane 
sketch '  mentioned  in  the  second  of  the  following  notes  to  me  was  the 
well-known  frontispiece  to  that  book  on  which  Mr.  Walter  Crane 
was  then  at  work.  The  essay  Pan's  Pipes,  reprinted  in  Virginibus 
Puerisque,  was  written  about  this  time. 

Hotel  des  Etrangers,  Dieppe,  January  i,  1878 

MY  DEAR  colvin, — I  am  at  the  Inland  Voyage 
again:  have  finished  another  section,  and  have  only 
two  more  to  execute.  But  one  at  least  of  these  will 
be  very  long — the  longest  in  the  book— being  a  great 
digression  on  French  artistic  tramps.  I  only  hope 
Paul  may  take  the  thing;  I  want  coin  so  badly,  and 
besides  it  would  be  something  done— something  put 
outside  of  me  and  off  my  conscience;  and  I  should 
not  feel  such  a  muff  as  I  do,  if  once  I  saw  the  thing 
in  boards  with  a  ticket  on  its  back.  I  think  I 
shall  frequent  circulating  libraries  a  good  deal.  The 
Preface  shall  stand  over,  as  you  suggest,  until  th^ 


258        LKTTKRS  OF  STKVKNSON      [1873 

last,  and  then,  sir,  we  shall  see.     This  to  be  read 
with  a  i)ig  voice. 

This  is  New  Year's  Day:  let  me,  my  dear  Colvin, 
wish  you  a  very  good  year,  free  of  all  misunderstand- 
ing and  bereavement,  and  full  of  good  weather  and 
good  work.  You  know  best  what  you  have  done 
for  me,  and  so  you  will  know  best  how  heartily  I 
mean  this. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

I  harl  had  business  in  Edinburgh,  and  had  stayed  with  Stevenson's 
parents  in  his  absence. 

[Paris,  January  or  February  1878] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Many  thanks  for  your  letter. 
I  was  much  interested  by  all  the  Edinburgh  gossip. 
Most  likely  I  shall  arrive  in  London  next  week.  I 
think  you  know  all  about  the  Crane  sketch:  but  it 
should  be  a  river,  not  a  canal,  you  know,  and  the 
look  should  be  'cruel,  lewd,  and  kindly,'  all  at  once. 
There  is  more  sense  in  that  Greek  myth  of  Pan 
than  in  any  other  that  I  recollect  except  the  luminous 
Hebrew  one  of  the  Fall:  one  of  the  biggest  things  done. 
If  people  would  remember  that  all  religions  are  no 
more  than  representations  of  life,  they  would  find 
them,  as  they  are,  the  best  representations,  licking 
Shakespeare. 

What  an  inconceivable  cheese  is  Alfred  de  Musset! 
His  comedies  are,  to  my  view,  the  best  work  of 
France  this  century:  a  large  order.  Did  you  ever 
read  them  ?  They  are  real,  clear,  living  work. — 
Ever  yours,  R.  L.  S. 


AET.  28]       THOMAS   STEVENSON  259 


To  Thomas  Stevenson 

Cafe  de  la  Source,  Bd.  St.  Michel, 
Paris,  i$lh  Feb.  1878 

MY  DEAR  FATHER, — A  thought  has  come  into  my 
head  which  I  think  would  interest  you.  Christianity 
is  among  other  things,  a  very  wise,  noble,  and  strange 
doctrine  of  life.  Nothing  is  so  difficult  to  specify  as 
the  position  it  occupies  with  regard  to  asceticism. 
It  is  not  ascetic.  Christ  was  of  all  doctors  (if  you 
will  let  me  use  the  word)  one  of  the  least  ascetic. 
And  yet  there  is  a  theory  of  living  in  the  Gospels 
which  is  curiously  indefinable,  and  leans  towards 
asceticism  on  one  side,  although  it  leans  away  from 
it  on  the  other.  In  fact,  asceticism  is  used  therein 
as  a  means,  not  as  an  end.  The  wisdom  of  this 
world  consists  in  making  oneself  very  little  in  order 
to  avoid  many  knocks;  in  preferring  others,  in 
order  that,  even  when  we  lose,  we  shall  find  some 
pleasure  in  the  event;  in  putting  our  desires  outside 
of  ourselves,  in  another  ship,  so  to  speak,  so  that, 
when  the  worst  happens,  there  will  be  something 
left.  You  see,  I  speak  of  it  as  a  doctrine  of  life, 
and  as  a  wisdom  for  this  world.  People  must  be 
themselves,  I  suppose,  I  feel  every  day  as  if  relig- 
ion had  a  greater  interest  for  me;  but  that  interest 
is  still  centred  on  the  little  rough-and-tumble  world 
in  which  our  fortunes  are  cast  for  the  moment.  I 
cannot  transfer  my  interests,  not  even  my  religious 
interest,  to  any  different  sphere.  ...  I  have  had 
some  sharp  lessons  and  some  very  acute  sufferings 
in  these  last  seven-and-twenty  years — more  even  than 


26o       LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      I.878 

you  would  guess.  I  begin  to  grow  an  old  man;  a 
little  sharp,  I  fear,  and  a  little  close  and  unfriendly; 
but  still  I  have  a  good  heart,  and  believe  in  my- 
self and  my  fellow- men  and  the  God  who  made 
us  all  There  are  not  many  sadder  people  in 

this  world,  perhaps,  than  I.  I  have  my  eye  on  a 
sickbed-^  I  have  written  letters  to-day  that  it  hurt 
me  to  write,  and  I  fear  it  will  hurt  others  to  receive; 
I  am  lonely  and  sick  and  out  of  heart.  Well,  I  still 
hope;  I  still  believe;  I  still  see  the  good  in  the  inch, 
and  cling  to  it.     It  is  not  much,  perhaps,  but  it  is 

always  something.  ,     .,     r  u.f 

I  find  I  have  wandered  a  thousand  miles  from  what 
I  meant.  It  was  this:  of  all  passages  bearing  on 
Christianity  in  that  form  of  a  worldly  wisdom  the 
most  Christian,  and  so  to  speak,  the  key  of  the 
whole  position,  is  the  Christian  doctrine  of  revenge 
And  it  appears  that  this  came  into  the  world  through 
Paul'  There  is  a  fact  for  you.  It  was  to  speak  of 
this  that  I  began  this  letter;  but  I  have  got  into 
deep  seas  and  must  go  on.  ^    ,     ,    , 

There  is  a  fine  text  in  the  Bible,  I  don't  know 
where,  to  the  effect  that  all  things  work  together  for 
good  to  those  who  love  the  Lord.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  you,  everything  has  been,  in  one  way 
or  the  other,  bringing  me  a  little  nearer  to  wha  1 
think  you  would  like  me  to  be.  'Tis  a  strange  world, 
indeed,  but  there  is  a  manifest  God  for  those  who 
care  to  look  for  him. 

This  is  a  very  solemn  letter  for  my  surroundings 
in  this  busy  cafe;   but  I  had  it  on  my  heart  to  write 
I  R.  Glasgow  Brown  lay  dying  in  the  Riviera. 


^T.  28]  MRS.  THOMAS  STEVENSON      261 

it;    and,  indeed,  I  was  out  of  the  humour  for  any 
thing  lighter. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

P.  S. — While  I  am  writing  gravely,  let  me  say  one 
word  more.  I  have  taken  a  step  towards  more  in- 
timate relations  with  you.  But  don't  expect  too 
much  of  me.  Try  to  take  me  as  I  am.  This  is  a 
rare  moment,  and  I  have  profited  by  it;  but  take  it 
as  a  rare  moment.  Usually  I  hate  to  speak  of  what 
I  really  feel,  to  that  extent  that  when  I  find  myself 
cornered,  I  have  a  tendency  to  say  the  reverse. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

Paris,  44  Bd.  Haussmann, 

Friday,  February  21,  1878 

MY  DEAR  PEOPLE, — Do  you  know  who  is  my 
favourite  author  just  now?  How  are  the  mighty 
fallen!  Anthony  Trollope.  I  batten  on  him;  he 
is  so  nearly  wearying  you,  and  yet  he  never  does; 
or  rather,  he  never  does,  until  he  gets  near  the  end, 
when  he  begins  to  wean  you  from  him,  so  that 
you're  as  pleased  to  be  done  with  him  as  you  thought 
you  would  be  sorry.  I  wonder  if  it's  old  age?  It 
is  a  little,  I  am  sure.  A  young  person  would  get 
sickened  by  the  dead  level  of  meanness  and  coward- 
liness; you  require  to  be  a  little  spoiled  and  cynical 
before  you  can  enjoy  it.  I  have  just  finished  the 
Way  of  the  World;  there  is  only  one  person  in  it — 
no,  there  are  three — who  are  nice:  the  wild  Ameri- 
can woman,  and  two  of  the  dissipated  young  men, 


262        IJ-TTl'lRS  OF   STKVRNSON      [.878 

Dolly  and  Lord  Niddcrdalc.  All  the  heroes  and 
heroines  are  just  ghastly.  But  what  a  triumjjh  is 
Lady  Carbury!  That  is  real,  sound,  strong,  genu- 
ine work:  the  man  who  could  do  that,  if  he  had  had 
courage,  might  have  written  a  fine  book;  he  has 
])referred  to  write  many  readable  ones,  I  meant  to 
write  such  a  long,  nice  letter,  but  I  cannot  hold  the 
pen. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

The  following  refers  to  the  newspaper  criticisms  on  the  Inland 
Voyage: — 

Hotel  dii  \'al  de  Grace,  Rue  St.  Jacques, 
Paris,  Sunday  [June  1878] 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — About  Criticisms,  I  was  more 
surprised  at  the  tone  of  the  critics  than  I  suppose 
any  one  else.  And  the  effect  it  has  produced  in 
me  is  one  of  shame.  If  they  liked  that  so  much,  I 
ought  to  have  given  them  something  better,  that's 
all.  And  I  shall  try  to  do  so.  Still,  it  strikes  me  as 
odd;  and  I  don't  understand  the  vogue.  It  should 
sell  the  thing. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 


This  letter  tells  of  the  progress  of  the  Portfolio  papers  called 
Picturesque  Notes  on  Edinhur^lt;  and  of  [jreparations  for  the  walk- 
ing tour  narrated  in  Travels  u-ith  a  Donkey.  Mr.  Philip  Gilbert 
Hamerton,  editor  of  the  Portfolio  and  author  of  A  Painter's  Camp 
in  the  Highlands  and  of  many  well-known  works  on  art,  landscape, 
and  P'rench  social  life,  was  at  this  time  and  for  many  years  living 


.KT.  28]  MRS.   THOMAS    STEVENSON    263 

at  a  small  chateau  near  Autun;  and  the  visit  here  proposed  was 
actually  paid  and  gave  great  pleasure  alike  to  host  and  guest  (see 
P.  G.  Hamerton,  an  Autobiography,  etc.,  p.  451). 

Monastier,  September   1878 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — You  must  not  cxpcct  to  hear 
much  from  me  for  the  next  two  weeks;  for  I  am 
near  starting.  Donkey  purchased — a  love — price, 
65  francs  and  a  glass  of  brandy.  My  route  is  all 
pretty  well  laid  out;  I  shall  go  near  no  town  till 
I  get  to  Alais.  Remember,  Poste  Restante,  Alais, 
Gard.  Greyfriars  will  be  in  October.  You  did  not 
say -whether  you  liked  September;  you  might  tell 
me  that  at  Alais.  The  other  No.'s  of  Edinburgh 
are:  Parliament  Close,  Villa  Quarters  (which  per- 
haps may  not  appear),  Calton  Hill,  Winter  and  New 
Year,  and  to  the  Pentland  Hills.  'Tis  a  kind  of 
book  nobody  would  ever  care  to  read;  but  none 
of  the  young  men  could  have  done  it  better  than  I 
have,  which  is  always  a  consolation.  I  read  Inland 
Voyage  the  other  day:  what  rubbish  these  reviewers 
did  talk!  It  is  not  badly  written,  thin,  mildly  cheery, 
and  strained.  Selon  moi.  I  mean  to  visit  Hamer- 
ton on  my  return  journey;  otherwise,  I  should  come 
by  sea  from  Marseilles.  I  am  very  well  known  here 
now;  indeed,  quite  a  feature  of  the  place. — Your 
affectionate  son,  t.    t     c 

K.  L,.  o. 

The  Engineer  is  the  Conductor  of  Roads  and 
Bridges;  then  I  have  the  Receiver  of  Registrations, 
the  First  Clerk  of  Excise,  and  the  Perceiver  of  the 
Impost.  That  is  our  dinner  party.  I  am  a  sort  of 
hovering  government  official,  as  you  see.  But  away 
— away  from  these  great  companions ! 


264        LET'IKRS  OF  STEVENSON      [1878 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

[Monastier,  September  1878] 

DEAR  HENLEY, — I  hope  to  leave  Monastier  this 
day  (Saturday)  week;  thenceforward  Poste  Restante, 
Alais,  Gard,  is  my  address.  Travels  with  a  Donkey 
in  the  French  Highlands.  I  am  no  good  to-day. 
I  cannot  work,  nor  even  write  letters.  A  colossal 
breakfast  yesterday  at  Puy  has,  I  think,  done  for 
me  for  ever;  I  certainly  ate  more  than  ever  I  ate 
before  in  my  life — a  big  slice  of  melon,  some  ham 
and  jelly,  a  filet,  a  helping  of  gudgeons,  the  breast 
and  leg  of  a  partridge,  some  green  peas,  eight  cray- 
fish, some  Mont  d'Or  cheese,  a  peach,  and  a  handful 
of  biscuits,  macaroons,  and  things.  It  sounds  Gar- 
gantuan; it  cost  three  francs  a  head.  So  that  it 
was  inexpensive  to  the  pocket,  although  I  fear  it 
may  prove  extravagant  to  the  fleshly  tabernacle.  I 
can't  think  how  I  did  it  or  why.  It  is  a  new  form 
of  excess  for  me;  but  I  think  it  pays  less  than  any 
of  them. 


To  Charles  Baxter 

Monastier,  at  Morel's  [September  1878] 

Lud  knows  about  date,  vide  postmark 

MY  DEAR  CHARLES, — Yours  (with  enclosures)  of 
the  1 6th  to  hand.  All  work  done.  I  go  to  Le  Puy 
to-morrow  to  dispatch  baggage,  get  cash,  stand  lunch 
to  engineer,  who  has  been  very  jolly  and  useful 
to  me,  and  hope  by  five  o'clock  on  Saturday  morn- 
ing to  be  driving  Modestine  towards  the  Gevaudan. 


AET.  28]  MRS.   THOMAS   STEVENSON    265 

Modestine  is  my  anesse;  a  darling,  mouse-colour, 
about  the  size  of  a  Newfoundland  dog  (bigger,  be- 
tween you  and  me),  the  colour  of  a  mouse,  cost- 
ing 65  francs  and  a  glass  of  brandy.  Glad  you  sent 
on  all  the  coin;  was  half  afraid  I  might  come  to  a 
stick  in  the  mountains,  donkey  and  all,  which  would 
have  been  the  devil.  Have  finished  Arabian  Nights 
and  Edinburgh  book,  and  am  a  free  man.  .  Next 
address,  Poste  Restante,  Alais,  Gard.  Give  my  ser- 
vilities to  the  family.  Health  bad;  spirits,  I  think, 
looking  up. — Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

Paris,  October  1878 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  have  seen  Hamerton;  he 
was  very  kind,  all  his  family  seemed  pleased  to  see 
an  Inland  Voyage,  and  the  book  seemed  to  be 
quite  a  household  word  with  them.  P.  G.  himself 
promised  to  help  me  in  my  bargains  with  publishers, 
which,  said  he,  and  I  doubt  not  very  truthfully,  he 
could  manage  to  much  greater  advantage  than  I. 
He  is  also  to  read  an  Inland  Voyage  over  again,  and 
send  me  his  cuts  and  cuffs  in  private,  after  having 
liberally  administered  his  kisses  coram  publico.  I 
liked  him  very  much.  Of  all  the  pleasant  parts  of 
my  profession,  I  think  the  spirit  of  other  men  of 
letters  makes  the  pleasantest. 

Do  you  know,  your  sunset  was  very  good?  The 
'attack'  (to  speak  learnedly)  was  so  plucky  and  odd. 
I  have  thought  of  it  repeatedly  since.     I  have  just 


266        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON       [1878 

made  a  delightful  dinner  by  myself  in  the  Caf^ 
Felix,  where  I  am  an  old  established  bagger,  and  am 
just  smoking  a  cigar  over  my  colTee.  I  came  last 
night  from  Autun,  and  I  am  muddled  about  my 
])lans.  The  world  is  such  a  dance! — Ever  your 
alTectionate  son, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

Stevenson,  hard  at  work  u])on  Prai'idence  and  the  Guitar,  New 
Arabian  Nights,  and  Travels  with  a  Donkey,  was  at  this  time  occu- 
pying for  a  few  days  my  rooms  at  Trinity  in  my  absence.  The 
college  buildings  and  gardens,  the  ideal  setting  and  careful  tutelage 
of  English  academic  life — in  these  respects  so  strongly  contrasted 
with  the  Scotch— affected  him  always  with  a  sense  of  unreality. 
The  g)p  mentioned  is  the  present  head  porter  of  the  college. 

[Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  Autumn  1878] 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Here  I  am  living  like  a  fight- 
ing-cock, and  ha\-e  not  spoken  to  a  real  person  for 
about  sixty  hours.  Those  who  wait  on  me  are  not 
real.  The  man  I  know  to  be  a  myth,  because  I 
have  seen  him  acting  so  often  in  the  Palais  Royal. 
He  plays  the  Duke  in  Tricoche  et  Cacolet;  I  knew 
his  nose  at  once.  The  part  he  plays  here  is  very 
dull  for  him,  but  conscientious.  As  for  the  bed- 
maker,  she's  a  dream,  a  kind  of  cheerful,  innocent 
nightmare;  I  never  saw  so  poor  an  imitation  of 
humanity.  I  cannot  work — cannot.  Even  the  Gui- 
tar  is  still  undone;  I  can  only  write  ditch-water. 
'Tis  ghastly;  but  I  am  quite  cheerful,  and  that  is 
more  important.  Do  you  think  you  could  prepare 
the  printers  for  a  possible  breakdown  this  week? 
I  shall  try  all  I  know  on  Monday;  but  if  I  can  get 


AET.  29]  EDMUND  GOSSE  267 

nothing  better  than  I  got  this  morning,  I  prefer  to 
drop  a  week.  Telegraph  to  me  if  you  think  it 
necessary.  I  shall  not  leave  till  Wednesday  at 
soonest.     Shall  write  again. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

The  matter  of  the  loan  and  its  repayment,  here  touched  on,  comes 
up  again  in  Stevenson's  last  letter  of  all,  that  which  closes  the  book. 
Stevenson  and  Mr.  Gosse  had  planned  a  joint  book  of  old  murder 
stories  retold,  and  had  been  to  visit  the  scene  of  one  famous  murder 
together. 

[Edinburgh,  April  i6,  1879] 

Pool  of  Siloam,  by  El  Dorado, 

Delectable  Mountains,  Arcadia 

MY  DEAR  GOSSE, — Herewith  of  the  dibbs — a 
homely  fiver.  How,  and  why,  do  you  continue  to 
exist?  I  do  so  ill,  but  for  a  variety  of  reasons. 
First,  I  wait  an  angel  to  come  down  and  trouble 
the  waters;  second,  more  angels;  third — well,  more 
angels.  The  waters  are  sluggish;  the  angels — well, 
the  angels  won't  come,  that's  about  all.  But  I  sit 
waiting  and  waiting,  and  people  bring  me  meals, 
which  help  to  pass  time  (I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of 
them),  and  sometimes  I  whistle  to  myself;  and  as 
there's  a  very  pretty  echo  at  my  pool  of  Siloam,  the 
thing's  agreeable,  to  hear.  The  sun  continues  to 
rise  every  day,  to  my  growing  wonder.  'The  moon 
by  night  thee  shall  not  smite.'  And  the  stars  are 
all  doing  as  well  as  can  be  expected.  The  air  of 
Arcady  is  very  brisk  and  pure,  and  we  command 
many  enchanting  prospects  in  space  and  time.  I 
do  not  yet  know  much  about  my  situation;  for,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  only  came  here  by  the  run  smce  I 


268        LET'IKRS   OF  STEVENSON       [.879 

began  to  write  this  letter;  I  had  to  go  back  to  date 
it;  and  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  having  been  the 
occasion  of  this  little  outing.  What  good  travellers 
we  are,  if  we  had  only  faith;  no  man  need  stay  in 
Edinburgh  but  by  unbelief;  my  religious  organ  has 
been  ailing  for  a  while  past,  and  I  have  lain  a  great 
deal  in  Edinburgh,  a  sheer  hulk  in  consequence. 
But  I  got  out  my  wings,  and  have  taken  a  change  of 
air. 

I  read  your  book  with  great  interest,  and  ought 
long  ago  to  have  told  you  so.  An  ordinary  man 
would  say  that  he  had  been  waiting  till  he  could 
pay  his  debts.  .  .  .  The  book  is  good  reading. 
Your  personal  notes  of  those  you  saw  struck  me  as 
perhaps  most  sharp  and  'best  held.'  See  as  many 
people  as  you  can,  and  make  a  book  of  them  before 
you  die.  That  will  be  a  living  book,  upon  my  word. 
You  have  the  touch  required.  I  ask  you  to  put 
hands  to  it  in  private  already.  Think  of  what 
Carlyle's  caricature  of  old  Coleridge  is  to  us  who 
never  saw  S.  T.  C.  With  that  and  Kubla  Khan, 
we  have  the  man  in  the  fact.  Carlyle's  picture,  of 
course,  is  not  of  the  author  of  Kiihla,  but  of  the 
author  of  that  surprising  Friend  which  has  knocked 
the  breath  out  of  two  generations  of  hopeful  youth. 
Your  portraits  would  be  milder,  sweeter,  more  true 
perhaps,  and  perhaps  not  so  \.xu\.\\-telling — if  you 
will  take  my  meaning. 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  ^n  introduction  to  that 
beautiful — no,  that's  not  the  word — that  jolly,  with 
an  Arcadian  jollity — thing  of  \'ogelweide's.  Also 
for  your  preface.     Some  day  I  want  to  read  a  whole 


AET.  29]  EDMUND  GOSSE  269 

book  in  the  same  picked  dialect  as  that  preface.  I 
think  it  must  be  one  E.  W.  Gosse  who  must  write 
it.  He  has  got  himself  into  a  fix  with  me  by  writing 
the  preface;  I  look  for  a  great  deal,  and  will  not 
be  easily  pleased. 

I  ne  ^er  thought  of  it,  but  my  new  book,  which 
should  soon  be  out,  contains  a  visit  to  a  murder 
scene,  but  not  done  as  we  should  like  to  see  them, 
for,  of  course,  I  was  running  another  hare. 

If  you  do  not  answer  this  in  four  pages,  I  shall 
stop  the  enclosed  fiver  at  the  bank,  a  step  which  will 
lead  to  your  incarceration  for  life.  As  my  visits  to 
Arcady  are  somewhat  uncertain,  you  had  better  ad- 
dress 17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh,  as  usual.  I  shall 
walk  over  for  the  note  if  I  am  not  yet  home. — Believe 
me,  very  really  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

I  charge  extra  for  a  flourish  when  it  is  successful; 
this  isn't,  so  you  have  it  gratis.  Is  there  any  news 
in  Babylon  the  Great?  My  fellow-creatures  are 
electing  school  boards  here  in  the  midst  of  the  ages. 
It  is  very  composed  of  them.  I  can't  think  why 
they  do  it.  Nor  why  I  have  written  a  real  letter. 
If  you  write  a  real  letter  back,  damme,  I'll  try  to  cor- 
respond with  you.  A  thing  unknown  in  this  age. 
It  is  a  consequence  of  the  decay  of  faith;  we  cannot 
believe  that  the  fellow  will  be  at  the  pains  to  read  us. 


270       LETTERS  OF   SIEVENSON      [1879 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

This  is  in  rcjjly  to  some  technical  criticisms  of  his  corrcsiKjndcnt 
on  tiic  poem  Our  Lady  of  the  Smrws,  referring  to  the  Trapjiist 
monastery  in  the  Ccveiincs  so  called,  and  afterwards  published  in 
Underwoods. 

Edinburgh  [April  1879] 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Hcavcns!  have  I  done  the 
like?  'Clarify  and  strain,'  indeed?  'Make  it  like 
Marvcll,'  no  less.  I'll  tell  you  what— you  may  go 
to  the  devil;  that's  what  I  think.  *Bc  eloquent' 
is  another  of  your  pregnant  suggestions.  I  cannot 
sufficiently  thank  you  for  that  one.  Portrait  of  a 
person  about  to  be  eloquent  at  the  request  of  a 
literary  friend.  You  seem  to  forget,  S'.r,  that  rhyme 
is  rhyme,  sir,  and — go  to  the  devil. 

I'll  try  to  improve  it,  but  I  shan't  be  able  to— O 
go  to  the  de\il. 

Seriously,  you're  a  cool  hand.  And  then  you 
have  the  brass  to  ask  me  ivhy  'my  steps  went  one 
by  one'?  Why?  Powers  of  man!  to  rhyme  with 
sun,  to  be  sure.  Why  else  could  it  be?  And  you 
yourself  have  been  a  poet!  G-r-r-r-r-r!  I'll  never  be 
a  poet  any  more.  Men  are  so  d— d  ungrateful  and 
captious,  I  declare  I  could  weep. 


O  Henley,  in  my  hours  of  ease 
You  may  say  anythin};  you  please, 
But  when  I  join  the  Muse's  revel, 
Be^ad,  I  wish  you  at  the  devil! 
In  vain  my  verse  I  j)lane  and  l^evel, 
Like  Banville's  rhyming  devotees; 
In  vain  by  many  an  artful  swivel 
Lug  in  my  meaning  by  degrees: 


AET.  .9]  W.   E.   HENLEY  271 

I'm  sure  to  hear  my  Henley  cavil; 
And  grovelling  prostrate  on  my  knees, 
Devote  his  body  to  the  seas, 
His  correspondence  to  the  devil! 

Impromptu  poem. 

I'm  going  to  Shandon  Hydropathic  cum  parenti- 
bus.  Write  here.  I  heard  from  Lang,  Ferrier  pray- 
eth  to  be  remembered;  he  means  to  write,  hkes 
his  Tourgenieff  greatly.  Also  likes  my  What  was  on 
the  Slate,  which,  under  a  new  title,  yet  unfound, 
and  with  a  new  and,  on  the  whole,  kindly  denoue- 
ment, is  going  to  shoot  up  and  become  a  star.  .  .  . 

I  see  I  must  write  some  more  to  you  about  my 
Monastery.  I  am  a  weak  brother  in  verse.  You 
ask  me  to  re-write  things  that  I  have  already  man- 
aged just  to  write  with  the  skin  of  my  teeth.  If  I 
don't  re-write  them,  it's  because  I  don't  see  how  to 
write  them  better,  not  because  I  don't  think  they 
should  be.  But,  curiously  enough,  you  condemn 
two  of  my  favourite  passages,  one  of  which  is  J.  W. 
Ferrier's  favourite  of  the  whole.  Here  I  shall  think 
it's  you  who  are  wrong.  You  see,  I  did  not  try  to 
make  good  verse,  but  to  say  what  I  wanted  as  well 
as  verse  would  let  me.  I  don't  like  the  rhyme 
'ear'  and  'hear.'  But  the  couplet,  'My  undissuaded 
heart  I  hear  Whisper  courage  in  my  ear,'  is  exactly 
what  I  want  for  the  thought,  and  to  me  seems  very 
energetic  as  speech,  if  not  as  verse.  Would  'daring' 
be  better  than  'courage' ?  Je  me  le  demande.  No,  it 
would  be  ambiguous,  as  though  I  had  used  it  licen- 
tiously for  'daringly,'  and  that  would  cloak  the  sense. 

In  short,  your  suggestions  have  broken  the  heart 


272       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON       [.879 

of  the  scald.  He  doesn't  agree  with  them  all;  and 
those  he  does  agree  with,  the  spirit  indeed  is  willing, 
but  the  d — d  tlesh  cannot,  cannot,  cannot,  see  its 
way  to  profit  by.  I  think  I'll  lay  it  by  for  nine 
years,  like  Horace.  I  think  the  well  of  Castaly's  run 
out.  No  more  the  Muses  round  my  pillow  haunt. 
I  am  fallen  once  more  to  the  mere  proser.     God 

'''"^  >■""•  R.  L.  S. 

To  Miss  Jane  Whyte  Balfour 

This  correspondent,  the  long-lived  spinster  among  the  Balfour 
sisters  (died  IQ07,  af^ed  91)  and  well-beloved  'auntie'  of  a  numerous 
clan  of  nephews  and  nieces,  is  the  subject  of  the  set  of  verses, 
Auntie's  Skirls,  in  the  Child's  Garden.  She  had  been  reading 
Travels  -with  a  Donkey  on  its  publication. 

{Swanston,  June  1879] 

MY  DEAR  AUNTIE, — If  you  could  Only  think  a  little 
less  of  me  and  others,  and  a  great  deal  more  of  your 
delightful  self,  you  would  be  as  nearly  perfect  as 
there  is  any  need  to  be.  I  think  I  have  travelled 
with  donkeys  all  my  life;  and  the  experience  of  this 
book  could  be  nothing  new  to  me.  But  if  ever  I 
knew  a  real  donkey,  I  believe  it  is  yourself.  You 
are  so  eager  to  think  well  of  everybody  else  (except 
when  you  are  angry  on  account  of  some  third  per- 
son) that  I  do  not  believe  you  have  ever  left  yourself 
time  to  think  properly  of  yourself.  You  never  under- 
stand when  other  people  are  unworthy,  nor  when  you 
yourself  are  worthy  in  the  highest  degree.  Oblige 
us  all  by  having  a  guid  conceit  o'  yoursel  and  de- 
spising in  the  future  the  whole  crowd,  including 
your  affectionate  nephew,  r.    t     c 

K.     Li.     O. 


AET.  29]  EDMUND  GOSSE  273 


To  Edmund  Gosse 

This  letter  is  contemporary  with  the  much-debated  Cornhill  essay 
On  some  Aspects  of  Burns,  afterwards  published  in  Familiar  Studies 
of  Men  and  Books.  'Meredith's  story'  is  probably  the  Tragic 
Comedians. 

Swanston,  July  24,  1879 

MY  DEAR  GOSSE, — I  have  greatly  enjoyed  your 
article,  which  seems  to  me  handsome  in  tone,  and 
written  like  a  fine  old  English .  gentleman.  But  is 
there  not  a  hitch  in  the  sentence  at  foot  of  page 
153?     I  get  lost  in  it. 

Chapters  viii.  and  ix.  of  Meredith's  story  are 
very  good,  I  think.  But  who  wrote  the  review  of 
my  book?  Whoever  he  was,  he  cannot  write;  he 
is  humane,  but  a  duffer;  I  could  weep  when  I  think 
of  him;  for  surely  to  be  virtuous  and  incompetent 
is  a  hard  lot.  I  should  prefer  to  be  a  bold  pirate, 
the  gay  sailor-boy  of  immorality,  and  a  publisher 
at  once.  My  mind  is  extinct;  my  appetite  is  ex- 
piring; I  have  fallen  altogether  into  a  hollow-eyed, 
yawning  way  of  life,  like  the  parties  in  Burne 
Jones's  pictures.  .  .  .  Talking  of  Burns.  (Is  this 
not  sad,  Weg?  I  use  the  term  of  reproach  not  be- 
cause I  am  angry  with  you  this  time,  but  because 
I  am  angry  with  myself  and  desire  to  give  pain.) 
Talking,  I  say,  of  Robert  Burns,  the  inspired  poet 
is  a  very  gay  subject  for  study.  I  made  a  kind  of 
chronological  table  of  his  various  loves  and  lusts, 
and  have  been  comparatively  speechless  ever  since. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  but  there  was  something  in  him 
of  the  vulgar,  bagmanlike,  professional  seducer. — 
Oblige  me  by  taking  down  and  reading,   for  the 


274        LK'riKR.S   OF   STKVENSON       [.879 

hundredth  lime  1  hope,  his  Twa  Dogs  and  his 
Address  to  the  Unco  Giiid.  I  am  only  a  Scotchman, 
after  all,  you  sec;  and  when  I  have  beaten  Burns, 
I  am  driven  at  once,  by  my  parental  feelings,  to  con- 
sole him  witn  a  sugar-plum.  But  hang  me  if  I  know 
anything  I  like  so  well  as  the  Twa  Dogs.  Even  a 
common  Englishman  may  have  a  glimpse,  as  it  were 
from  Pisgah,  of  its  extraordinary  merits. 

'English,  The: — a  dull  people,  incapable  of  com- 
prehending the  Scottish  tongue.  Their  history  is  so 
intimately  connected  with  that  of  Scotland,  that  we 
must  refer  our  readers  to  that  heading.  Their 
literature  is  principally  the  work  of  venal  Scots.' — 
Stevenson's  Handy  Cyclopcedia.  Glescow:  Blaikie 
&  Bannock. 

Remember  me  in  suitable  fashion  to  Mrs.  Gosse, 
the  offspring,  and  the  cat. — And  believe  me  ever 
yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Rembrandt  refers  to  an  article  in  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
'Bummkopf  was  Stevenson's  name  for  the  tj'pical  pedant,  Ger- 
man or  other,  who  cannot  clear  his  edifice  of  its  scaffolding,  nor 
set  forth  the  results  of  research  without  intruding  on  the  reader  all 
its  processes,  evidences,  and  sujiporLs.  Burns  is  the  aforesaid 
Cornhill  essay:   not  the  rejected  Encyclopaedia  article. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh  [July  28,  1879] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  am  just  in  the  middle  of  your 
Rembrandt.  The  taste  for  Bummkopf  and  his  works 
is  agreeably  dissembled  so  far  as  I  have  gone;  and 
the  reins  have  never  for  an  instant  been  thrown 
upon   the  neck  of  tliat  wooden   Pegasus;    he  only 


AET.  29]  EDMUND  GOSSE  275 

perks  up  a  learned  snout  from  a  footnote  in  the 
cellarage  of  a  paragraph;  just,  in  short,  where  he 
ought  to  be,  to  inspire  confidence  in  a  wicked  and 
adulterous  generation.  But,  mind  you,  Bummkopf  is 
not  human;  he  is  Dagon  the  fish  god,  and  down  he 
will  come,  sprawling  on  his  belly  or  his  behind,  with 
his  hands  broken  from  his  helpless  carcase,  and  his 
*  head  rolling  off  into  a  corner.  Up  will  rise  on  the 
other  side,  same,  pleasurable,  human  knowledge:  a 
thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy,  etc. 

I'm  three  parts  through  Burns;  long,  dry,  unsym- 
pathetic, but  sound  and,  I  think,  in  its  dry  way, 
interesting.  Next  I  shall  finish  the  story,  and  then 
perhaps  Thoreau.  Meredith  has  been  staying  with 
Morley,  has  been  cracking  me  up,  he  writes,  to  that 
literary  Robespierre;  and  he  (the  L.  R.)  is  about, 
it  is  believed,  to  write  to  me  on  a  literary  scheme. 
Is  it  Keats,  hope  you?  My  heart  leaps  at  the 
thought. — Yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

With  reference  to  the  'term  of  reproach,'  it  must  be  explained 
that  Mr.  Gosse,  who  now  signs  with  only  one  initial,  used  in  these 
days  to  sign  with  two,  E.  W.  G.  The  nickname  Weg  was  fastened 
on  him  by  Stevenson,  partly  under  a  false  impression  as  to  the 
order  of  these  initials,  partly  in  friendly  derision  of  a  passing  fit 
of  lameness,  which  called  up  the  memory  of  Silas  Wegg,  the 
immortal  literary  gentleman  'with  a  wooden  leg'  of  Our  Mutual 
Friend. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh  [July  29,  1879] 

MY  DEAR  GOSSE, — Yours  was  delicious;  you  are  a 
young  person  of  wit;  one  of  the  last  of  them;  wit 
being  quite  out  of  date,  and  humour  confined  to 


276        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.879 

the  Scotch  Church  and  the  Spectator  in  unconscious 
survival.  You  will  [)robably  be  glad  to  hear  that 
I  am  up  again  in  the  world;  I  have  breathed  again, 
and  had  a  frolic  on  the  strength  of  it.  The  frolic 
was  yesterday,  Sawbath;  the  scene,  the  Royal  Hotel, 
Bathgate;  I  went  there  with  a  humorous  friend  to 
lunch.  The  maid  soon  showed  herself  a  lass  of 
character.  She  was  looking  out  of  window.  On 
being  asked  what  she  was  after,  'I'm  lookin'  for  my 
lad,'  says  she.  Ts  that  him?'  *Weel,  I've  been 
lookin'  for  him  a'  my  life,  and  I've  never  seen  him 
yet,'  was  the  response.  I  wrote  her  some  verses  in 
the  vernacular;  she  read  them.  'They're  no  bad 
for  a  beginner,'  said  she.  The  landlord's  daughter, 
Miss  Stewart,  was  present  in  oil  colour;  so  I  wrote 
her  a  declaration  in  verse,  and  sent  it  by  the  hand- 
maid. She  (Miss  S.)  was  present  on  the  stair  to 
witness  our  departure,  in  a  warm,  suffused  condi- 
tion. Damn  it,  Gosse,  you  needn't  suppose  that 
you're  the  only  poet  in  the  world. 

Your  statement  about  your  initials,  it  will  be  seen, 
I  pass  over  in  contempt  and  silence.  When  once  I 
have  made  up  my  mind,  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  there 
lives  no  pock-pudding  who  can  change  it.  Your 
anger  I  defy.  Your  unmanly  reference  to  a  well- 
known  statesman  I  puff  from  me,  sir,  like  so  much 
vapour.     Weg  is  your  name;   Weg.     W  E  G. 

My  enthusiasm  has  kind  of  dropped  from  me.  I 
envy  you  your  wife,  your  home,  your  child — I  w^as 
going  to  say  your  cat.  There  would  be  cats  in  my 
home  too  if  I  could  but  get  it.  I  may  seem  to  you 
'the  impersonation  of  life,'  but  my  life  is  the  im- 


AET.  29]  EDMUND   GOSSE  277 

personation  of  waiting,  and  that's  a  poor  creature. 
God  help  us  all,  and  the  deil  be  kind  to  the  hind- 
most! Upon  my  word,  we  are  a  brave,  cheery  crew, 
we  human  beings,  and  my  admiration  increases  daily 
— primarily  for  myself,  but  by  a  roundabout  process 
for  the  whole  crowd;  for  I  dare  say  they  have  all 
their  poor  little  secrets  and  anxieties.  And  here  am 
I,  for  instance,  writing  to  you  as  if  you  were  in  the 
seventh  heaven,  and  yet  I  know  you  are  in  a  sad 
anxiety  yourself.  I  hope  earnestly  it  will  soon  be 
over,  and  a  fine  pink  Gosse  sprawling  in  a  tub,  and 
a  mother  in  the  best  of  health  and  spirits,  glad  and 
tired,  and  with  another  interest  in  life.  Man,  you 
are  out  of  the  trouble  when  this  is  through.  A  first 
child  is  a  rival,  but  a  second  is  only  a  rival  to  the  first; 
and  the  husband  stands  his  ground  and  may  keep 
married  all  his  life — a  consummation  heartily  to  be 
desired.  Good-bye,  Gosse.  Write  me  a  witty  letter 
with  good  news  of  the  mistress. 

R.  L.  S. 


THE   AMATEUR   EMIGRANT 

S.S.   DEVONIA— MONTEREY  AND   SAN 
FRANCISCO— MARRIAGE 

JULY   1 8  79- JULY    1880 

IN  France,  as  has  been  already  indicated,  Steven- 
son had  met  the  American  lady,  Mrs.  Osbourne, 
who  was  afterwards  to  become  his  wife.  Her 
domestic  relations  had  not  been  fortunate;  to  his 
chivalrous  nature  her  circumstances  appealed  no  less 
than  her  person;  and  almost  from  their  first  meeting, 
which  befell  at  Grez,  immediately  after  the  canoe 
voyage  of  1876,  he  conceived  for  her  an  attachment 
which  was  to  transform  and  determine  his  life.  On 
her  return  to  America  with  her  children  in  the 
autumn  of  1878,  she  determined  to  seek  a  divorce 
from  her  husband.  Hearing  of  her  intention,  to- 
gether with  very  disquieting  news  of  her  health,  and 
hoping  that  after  she  had  obtained  the  divorce  he 
might  make  her  his  wife,  Stevenson  suddenly  started 
for  California  at  the  beginning  of  August  1879. 

For  what  he  knew  must  seem  to  his  friends,  and 
especially  to  his  father,  so  wild  an  errand,  he  would 
ask  for  no  supplies  from  home;  but  resolved,  risking 
his  whole  future  on  the  issue,  to  test  during  this 

278 


THE  AMATEUR   EMIGRANT      279 

adventure  his  power  of  supporting  himself,  and 
eventually  others,  by  his  own  labours  in  literature. 
In  order  from  the  outset  to  save  as  much  as  possible, 
he  made  the  journey  in  the  steerage  and  the  emi- 
grant train.  With  this  prime  motive  of  economy 
was  combined  a  second — that  of  learning  for  himself 
the  pinch  of  life  as  it  is  felt  by  the  unprivileged  and 
the  poor  (he  had  long  ago  disclaimed  for  himself  the 
character  of  a  'consistent  first-class  passenger  in  life') 
— and  also,  it  should  be  added,  a  third,  that  of  turn- 
ing his  experiences  to  literary  account.  On  board 
ship  he  took  daily  notes  with  this  intent,  and  wrote 
moreover  The  Story  of  a  Lie  for  an  English  maga- 
zine. Arrived  at  his  destination,  he  found  his  health, 
as  was  natural,  badly  shaken  by  the  hardships  of 
the  journey;  tried  his  favourite  open-air  cure  for 
three  weeks  at  an  Angora  goat-ranch  some  twenty 
miles  from  Monterey;  and  then  lived  from  Septem- 
ber to  December  in  that  old  Californian  coast-town 
itself,  under  the  conditions  set  forth  in  the  earlier  of 
the  following  letters,  and  under  a  heavy  combined 
strain  of  personal  anxiety  and  literary  effort.  From 
the  notes  taken  on  board  ship  and  in  the  emigrant 
train  he  drafted  an  account  of  his  journey,  intending 
to  make  a  volume  matching  in  form,  though  in  con- 
tents much  unlike,  the  earlier  Inland  Voyage  and 
Travels  with  a  Donkey.  He  wrote  also  the  essays 
on  Thoreau  and  the  Japanese  reformer,  Yoshida 
Torajiro,  afterwards  published  in  Familiar  Studies 
of  Men  and  Books;    one  of  the  most  vivid  of  his 


28o       LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON 

shorter  talcs.  TJie  Pavilion  on  the  Links,  herein- 
after referred  to.  as  a  '  blood  and  thunder,'  as  well 
as  a  great  part  of  another  and  longer  story  drawn 
from  his  new  experiences  and  called  A  Vendetta  in 
the  West;  but  this  did  not  satisfy  him,  and  was 
never  finished.  He  j)lanned  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
spirit  of  romantic  comedy,  that  tale  which  took  final 
shape  four  years  later  as  Prince  Otto.  Towards  the 
end  of  December  1879  Stevenson  moved  to  San 
Francisco,  where  he  lived  for  three  months  in  a 
workman's  lodging,  leading  a  life  of  frugality 
amounting,  it  will  be  seen,  to  self-imposed  penury, 
and  working  always  with  the  same  intensity  of  appli- 
cation, until  his  health  utterly  broke  down.  One  of 
the  causes  which  contributed  to  his  illness  was  the 
fatigue  he  underwent  in  helping  to  watch  beside  the 
sick-bed  of  a  child,  the  son  of  his  landlady.  During 
a  part  of  March  and  April  he  lay  at  death's  door — 
his  first  really  dangerous  sickness  since  childhood — 
and  was  slowly  tended  back  to  life  by  the  joint  min- 
istrations of  his  future  wife  and  the  physician  to 
whom  his  letter  of  thanks  will  be  found  below.  His 
marriage  ensued  in  May  1880;  immediately  after- 
guards, to  try  and  consolidate  his  recovery,  he  moved 
to  a  deserted  mining-camp  in  the  Californian  coast 
range;  and  has  recorded  the  aspects  and  humours 
of  his  life  there  with  a  master's  touch  in  the  Silverado 
Squatters. 

The  news  of  his  dangerous  illness  and  approach- 
ing  marriage   had   in  the  meantime   unlocked  the 


AET.  29]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  281 

parental  heart  and  purse;  supplies  were  sent  ensur- 
ing his  present  comfort,  with  the  promise  of  their 
continuance  for  the  future,  and  of  a  cordial  welcome 
for  the  new  daughter-in-law  in  his  father's  house. 
The  following  letters,  chosen  from  among  those 
written  during  the  period  in  question,  depict  his 
way  of  life,  and  reflect  at  once  the  anxiety  of  his 
friends  and  the  strain  of  the  time  upon  himself. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  story  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this  letter  is  The  Story 
of  a  Lie. 

On  hoard  s.s.  'Devonia,'  an  hour  or  two 
out  0/ New  York  [August  1879] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  have  finished  my  story.  The 
handwriting  is  not  good  because  of  the  ship's  mis- 
conduct: thirty-one  pages  in  ten  days  at  sea  is  not 
bad. 

I  shall  write  a  general  procuration  about  this 
story  on  another  bit  of  paper.  I  am  not  very  well; 
bad  food,  bad  air,  and  hard  work  have  brought  me 
down.  But  the  spirits  keep  good.  The  voyage  has 
been  most  interesting,  and  will  make,  if  not  a  series 
of  Pall  Mall  articles,  at  least  the  first  part  of  a  new 
book.  The  last  weight  on  me  has  been  trying  to 
keep  notes  for  this  purpose.  Indeed,  I  have  worked 
like  a  horse,  and  am  now  as  tired  as  a  donkey.  If 
T  should  have  to  push  on  far  by  rail,  I  shall  bring 
nothing  but  my  fine  bones  to  port. 

Good-bye  to  you  all.     I  suppose  it  is  now  late 


282        LL'l 'IKKS   OF   STKVP:NS0N       [.879 

afternoon  with  you  and  all  across  the  seas.  What 
shall  I  find  over  there?  I  dare  not  wonder. — Ever 
yours, 

R.  L.  S. 

P.  S. — I  go  on  my  way  to-night,  if  I  can;  if  not, 
to-morrow;  emigrant  train  ten  to  fourteen  days' 
journey;  warranted  extreme  discomfort.  The  only 
American  institution  which  has  yet  won  my  respect 
is  the  rain.  One  sees  it  is  a  new  country,  they 
are  so  free  with  their  water.  I  have  been  steadily 
drenched  for  twenty-four  hours;  water-proof  wet 
through;  immortal  spirit  fitfully  blinking  up  in  spite. 
Bought  a  coi)y  of  my  own  work,  and  the  man  said 
'by  Stevenson.' — 'Indeed,'  says  I. — 'Yes,  sir,'  says 
he. — Scene  closes. 

I  am  not  beaten  yet,  though  disaj)pointed.  If  I 
am,  it's  for  good  this  time;  you  know  what  'for 
good'  means  in  my  vocabulary — something  inside 
of  12  months  ])erhaps;  but  who  knows?  At  least, 
if  I  fail  in  my  great  pur[)ose,  I  shall  see  some  wild 
life  in  the  West  and  visit  both  Florida  and  Labrador 
ere  I  return.  But  I  don't  yet  know  if  I  have  the 
courage  to  stick  to  life  without  it.  Man,  I  was  sick, 
sick,  sick  of  this  last  year. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

[In  the  Emigrant  Train  from  New  York  to  San 
Francisco,  August  1879] 

DEAR  COLVIN,— ^I  am  in  the  cars  between  Pitts- 
b.urgh  and  Chicago,  just  now  bowling  through  Ohio. 
I  am  taking  charge  of  a  kid,  whose  mother  is  asleep, 


AET.  29]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  283 

with  one  eye,  while  I  write  you  this  with  the  other. 
I  reached  N.Y.  Sunday  night;  and  by  five  o'clock 
Monday  was  under  way  for  the  West.  It  is  now 
about  ten  on  Wednesday  morning,  so  I  have  already 
been  about  forty  hours  in  the  cars.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  lie  down  in  them,  which  must  end  by  being 
very  wearying. 

I  had  no  idea  how  easy  it  was  to  commit  suicide. 
There  seems  nothing  left  of  me;  I  died  a  while  ago; 
I  do  not  know  who  it  is  that  is  travelling. 


Of  where  or  how,  I  nothing  know; 

And  why,  I  do  not  care; 

Enough  if,  even  so, 
My  travelling  eyes,  my  travelling  mind  can  go 
By  flood  and  field  and  hill,  by  wood  and  meadow  fair, 
Beside  the  Susquehannah  and  along  the  Delaware. 

I  think,  I  hope,  I  dream  no  more 

The  dreams  of  otherwhere, 

The  cherished  thoughts  of  yore; 
I  have  been  changed  from  what  I  was  before; 
And  drunk  too  deep  perchance  the  lotus  of  the  air 
Beside  the  Susquehannah  and  along  the  Delaware. 

Unweary  God  me  yet  shall  bring 

To  lands  of  brighter  air. 

Where  I,  now  half  a  king. 
Shall  with  enfranchised  spirit  loudlier  sing, 
And  wear  a  bolder  front  than  that  which  now  I  wear 
Beside  the  Susquehannah  and  along  the  Delaware. 


Exit  Muse,  hurried  by  child's  games.  .  .  . 

Have  at  you  again,  being  now  well  through  Indi- 
ana. In  America  you  eat  better  than  anywhere  else; 
fact.     The  food  is  heavenly. 


284       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [1879 

No  man  is  any  use  until  he  has  dared  everything; 
I  feel  just  now  as  if  1  had,  and  so  might  become  a 
man.  'If  ye  have  faith  like  a  grain  of  mustard 
seed.'  That  is  so  true!  just  now  I  have  faith  as 
big  as  a  cigar-case;  T  will  not  say  die,  and  do  not 
fear  man  nor  fortune. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

Crossing  Nebraska  [Saturday,  August  23,  1879] 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — I  am  sitting  on  the  top  of  the 
cars  with  a  mill  party  from  Missouri  going  west 
for  his  health.  Desolate  flat  prairie  upon  all  hands. 
Here  and  there  a  herd  of  cattle,  a  yellow  butterfly  or 
two;  a  patch  of  wild  sunflowers;  a  wooden  house 
or  two;  then  a  wooden  church  alone  in  miles  of 
waste;  then  a  windmill  to  pump  water.  When  we 
stop,  which  we  do  often,  for  emigrants  and  freight 
travel  together,  the  kine  first,  the  men  after,  the 
whole  plain  is  heard  singing  with  cicadae.  This  is 
a  pause,  as  you  may  see  from  the  writing.  What 
happened  to  the  old  pedestrian  emigrants,  what  was 
the  tedium  suffered  by  the  Indians  and  trappers 
of  our  youth,  the  imagination  trembles  to  conceive. 
This  is  now  Saturday,  2  3rd,  and  I  have  been  steadily 
travelling  since  I  parted  from  you  at  St.  Pancras. 
It  is  a  strange  vicissitude  from  the  Savile  Club  to 
this;  I  sleep  with  a  man  from  Pennsylvania  who  has 
been  in  the  States  Navy,  and  mess  with  him  and  the 
Missouri  bird  already  alluded  to.  We  have  a  tin 
wash-bowl  among  four.  I  wear  nothing  but  a  shirt 
and  a  pair  of  trousers,  and  never  button  my  shirt. 


AET.  29]  W.   E.   HENLEY  285 

When  I  land  for  a  meal,  I  pass  my  coat  and  feel 
dressed.  This  life  is  to  last  till  Friday,  Saturday,  or 
Sunday  next.  It  is  a  strange  affair  to  be  an  emi- 
grant, as  I  hope  you  shall  see  in  a  future  work.  I 
wonder  if  this  will  be  legible;  my  present  station  on 
the  waggon  roof,  though  airy  compared  to  the  cars, 
is  both  dirty  and  insecure.  I  can  see  the  track 
straight  before  and  straight  behind  me  to  either 
horizon.  Peace  of  mind  I  enjoy  with  extreme  se- 
renity; I  am  doing  right;  I  know  no  one  will  think 
so;  and  don't  care.  My  body,  however,  is  all  to 
whistles;  I  don't  eat;  but,  man,  I  can  sleep.  The 
car  in  front  of  mine  is  chock  full  of  Chinese. 

Monday. — What  it  is  to  be  ill  in  an  emigrant 
train  let  those  declare  who  know.  I  slept  none  till 
late  in  the  morning,  overcome  with  laudanum,  of 
which  I  had  luckily  a  little  bottle.  All  to-day  I 
have  eaten  nothing,  and  only  drunk  two  cups  of 
tea,  for  each  of  which,  on  the  pretext  that  the  one 
was  breakfast,  and  the  other  dinner,  I  was  charged 
fifty  cents.  Our  journey  is  through  ghostly  deserts, 
sage  brush  and  alkali,  and  rocks,  without  form  or 
colour,  a  sad  corner  of  the  world.  I  confess  I  am 
not  jolly,  but  mighty  calm,  in  my  distresses.  My 
illness  is  a  subject  of  great  mirth  to  some  of  my 
fellow-travellers,  and  I  smile  rather  sickly  at  their 
jests. 

We  are  going  along  Bitter  Creek  just  now,  a  place 
infamous  in  the  history  of  emigration,  a  place  I  shall 
remember  myself  among  the  blackest.  I  hope  I 
may  get  this  posted  at  Ogden,  Utah. 

R.  L.  S. 


286        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.879 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Coast  Line  Mountains,  California, 
September  1879] 

Here  is  another  curious  start  in  my  life.  I  am 
living  at  an  Angora  goat-ranche,  in  the  Coast  Line 
Mountains,  eighteen  miles  from  Monterey.  I  was 
camping  out,  but  got  so  sick  that  the  two  rancheros 
took  me  in  and  tended  me.  One  is  an  old  bear- 
hunter,  seventy-two  years  old,  and  a  captain  from  the 
Mexican  war;  the  other  a  pilgrim,  and  one  who  was 
out  with  the  bear  flag  and  under  Fremont  when 
California  was  taken  by  the  States.  They  are  both 
true  frontiersmen,  and  most  kind  and  pleasant. 
Captain  Smith,  the  bear-hunter,  is  my  physician, 
and  I  obey  him  like  an  oracle. 

The  business  of  my  life  stands  pretty  nigh  still.  I 
work  at  my  notes  of  the  voyage.  It  will  not  be  very 
like  a  book  of  mine;  but  perhaps  none  the  less  suc- 
cessful for  that.  I  will  not  deny  that  I  feel  lonely 
to-day;  but  I  do  not  fear  to  go  on,  for  I  am  doing 
right.  I  have  not  yet  had  a  word  from  England, 
partly,  I  suppose,  because  I  have  not  yet  written  for 
my  letters  to  New  York;  do  not  blame  me  for  this 
neglect;  if  you  knew  all  I  have  been  through,  you 
would  wonder  I  had  done  so  much  as  I  have.  I 
teach  the  ranche  children  reading  in  the  morning, 
for  the  mother  is  from  home  sick. — Ever  your  affec- 
tionate friend, 

R.  L.  S. 


AET.  29]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  287 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Monterey,  California,  October  1879] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  received  your  letter  with  de- 
light; it  was  the  first  word  that  reached  me  from 
the  old  country.  I  am  in  good  health  now;  I  have 
been  pretty  seedy,  for  I  was  exhausted  by  the  journey 
and  anxiety  below  even  my  point  of  keeping  up;  I 
am  still  a  little  weak,  but  that  is  all;  I  begin  to 
ingrease,^  it  seems,  already.  My  book  is  about  half 
drafted:  the  Amateur  Emigrant,  that  is.  Can  you 
find  a  better  name  ?  I  believe  it  will  be  more  popu- 
lar than  any  of  my  others;  the  canvas  is  so  much 
more  popular  and  larger  too.  Fancy,  it  is  my  fourth. 
That  voluminous  writer.  I  was  vexed  to  hear  about 
the  last  chapter  of  The  Lie,  and  pleased  to  hear 
about  the  rest;  it  would  have  been  odd  if  it  had  no 
birthmark,  born  where  and  how  it  was.  It  should 
by  rights  have  been  called  the  Devonia,  for  that  is 
the  habit  with  all  children  born  in  a  steerage. 

I  write  to  you,  hoping  for  more.  Give  me  news 
of  all  who  concern  me,  near  or  far,  or  big  or  little. 
Here,  sir,  in  California  you  have  a  willing  hearer. 

Monterey  is  a  place  where  there  is  no  summer  or 
winter,  and  pines  and  sand  and  distant  hills  and  a 
bay  all  filled  with  real  water  from  the  Pacific.  You 
will  perceive  that  no  expense  has  been  spared.  I 
now  live  with  a  little  French  doctor;  I  take  one  of 
my  meals  in  a  little  French  restaurant;  for  the  other 
two,   I   sponge.      The   population   of   Monterey   is 

'  Engraisser,  grow  fat. 


288        LKTTKRS   OF   STKYHNSON       I.S79 

about  that  of  a  disscntirif^  chapel  on  a  wet  Sunday 
in  a  strong  church  neighbourhood.  They  are  mostly 
Mexican  and  Indian — mixed. — Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

Monterey,  &th  October  1879 

MY  DEAR  WEG, — I  know  I  am  a  rogue  and  the  son 
of  a  dog.  Yet  let  me  tell  you,  when  I  came  here  I 
had  a  week's  misery  and  a  fortnight's  illness,  and 
since  then  I  have  been  more  or  less  busy  in  being 
content.  This  is  a  kind  of  excuse  for  my  laziness. 
I  hope  you  will  not  excuse  yourself.  My  plans  are 
still  very  uncertain,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  anything 
will  happen  before  Christmas.  In  the  meanwhile, 
I  believe  I  shall  live  on  here  'between  the  sandhills 
and  the  sea,'  as  I  think  Mr.  Swinburne  hath  it.  I 
was  pretty  nearly  slain;  my  spirit  lay  down  and 
kicked  for  three  days;  I  was  up  at  an  Angora  goat- 
ranche  in  the  Santa  Lucia  Mountains,  nursed  by  an 
old  frontiersman,  a  mighty  hunter  of  bears,  and  I 
scarcely  slept,  or  ate,  or  thought  for  four  days.  Two 
nights  I  lay  out  under  a  tree  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  doing 
nothing  but  fetch  water  for  myself  and  horse,  light 
a  fire  and  make  coffee,  and  all  night  awake  hearing 
the  goat-bells  ringing  and  the  tree-frogs  singing 
when  each  new  noise  was  enough  to  set  me  mad. 
Then  the  bear-hunter  came  round,  pronounced  me 
'real  sick,'  and  ordered  me  up  to  the  ranche. 

It  was  an  odd,  miserable  piece  of  my  life;  and 
according  to  all  rule,  it  should  have  been  my  death; 


AET.  29]  EDMUND  GOSSE  289 

but  after  a  while  my  spirit  got  up  again  in  a  divine 
frenzy,  and  has  since  kicked  and  spurred  my  vile 
body  forward  with  great  emphasis  and  success. 

My  new  book,  The  Amateur  Emigrant,  is  about 
half  drafted.  I  don't  know  if  it  will  be  good,  but  I 
think  it  ought  to  sell  in  spite  of  the  deil  and  the 
publishers;  for  it  tells  an  odd  enough  experience, 
and  one,  I  think,  never  yet  told  before.  Look  for 
my  Burns  in  the  Cornhill,  and  for  my  Story  of  a  Lie 
in  Paul's  withered  babe,  the  New  Quarterly.  You 
may  have  seen  the  latter  ere  this  reaches  you;  tell 
me  if  it  has  any  interest,  like  a  good  boy,  and  re- 
member that  it  was  written  at  sea  in  great  anxiety 
of  mind.  What  is  your  news?  Send  me  your 
works,  like  an  angel,  au  fur  et  a  mesure  of  their 
apparition,  for  I  am  naturally  short  of  literature, 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  rust. 

I  fear  this  can  hardly  be  called  a  letter.  To  say 
truth,  I  feel  already  a  difficulty  of  approach;  I  do 
not  know  if  I  am  the  same  man  I  was  in  Europe, 
perhaps  I  can  hardly  claim  acquaintance  with  you. 
My  head  went  round  and  looks  another  way  now; 
for  when  I  found  myself  over  here  in  a  new  land, 
and  all  the  past  uprooted  in  the  one  tug,  and  I 
neither  feeling  glad  nor  sorry,  I  got  my  last  lesson 
about  mankind;  I  mean  my  latest  lesson,  for  of 
course  I  do  not  know  what  surprises  there  are  yet 
in  store  for  me.  But  that  I  could  have  so  felt  as- 
tonished me  beyond  description.  There  is  a  wonder- 
ful callousness  in  human  nature  which  enables  us 
to  live.  I  had  no  feeling  one  way  or  another,  from 
New  York  to  California,  until,   at  Dutch  Flat,   a 


290        LKXTERS   OF   S 1  l.VKNSON       [.H79 

mininj^  camp  in  the  Sierra,  I  heard  a  cock  crowing 
with  a  home  voice;  and  then  I  fell  to  hope  and 
regret  both  in  the  same  moment. 

Is  there  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?  and  how  is  your  wife  ? 
I  thought  of  you  more  than  once,  to  put  it  mildly. 

I  live  here  comfortably  enough;  but  I  shall  soon 
be  left  all  alone,  perhaps  till  Christmas.  Then  you 
may  hope  for  correspondence — and  may  not  I? — 
Your  friend,  tj    t     c 

K.  Li.  o. 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

[Monterey,  California,  October  1879] 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Herewith  the  Pavilion  on  tfie 
Links,  grand  carpentry  story  in  nine  chapters,  and  I 
should  hesitate  to  say  how  many  tableaux.  Where 
is  it  to  go?  God  knows.  It  is  the  dibbs  that  arc 
w^antcd.  It  is  not  bad,  though  I  say  it;  carpentry, 
of  course,  but  not  bad  at  that;  and  who  else  can 
carpenter  in  England,  now  that  Wilkie  Collins  is 
played  out?  It  might  be  broken  for  magazine  pur- 
poses at  the  end  of  Chapter  I\'.  I  send  it  to  you, 
as  I  dare  say  Payn  may  help,  if  all  else  fails.  Dibbs 
and  speed  are  my  mottoes. 

Do  acknowledge  the  Pavilion  by  return.  I  shall 
be  so  nervous  till  I  hear,  as  of  course  I  have  no  copy 
cxcei)t  of  one  or  two  places  where  the  vein  would 
not  run.  God  prosper  it,  poor  Pavilion!  May  it 
bring  me  money  for  myself  and  my  sick  one,  who 
may  need  it,  I  do  not  know  how  soon. 

Love  to  your  wife,  Anthony,  and  all.  I  shall 
write  to  Colvin  to-day  or  to-morrow. — Yours  ever, 

R.  L<  S> 


AET.  29]  W.   E.   HENLEY  291 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

The  story  spoken  of  in  these  letters  as  A   Vendetta  in  the  West 
was  three  parts  written  and  then  given  up  and  destroyed. 

[Monterey,  California,  October  1879] 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Many  thanks  for  your  good 
letter,  which  is  the  best  way  to  forgive  you  for  your 
previous  silence.  I  hope  Colvin  or  somebody  has 
sent  me  the  Cornhill  and  the  New  Quarterly,  though 
I  am  trying  to  get  them  in  San  Francisco.  I  think 
you  might  have  sent  me  (i)  some  of  your  articles  in 
the  P.  M.  G.*;  (2)  a  paper  with  the  announcement 
of  second  edition;  and  (3)  the  announcement  of  the 
essays  in  Athenaeum.  This  is  to  prick  you  in  the 
future.  Again,  choose,  in  your  head,  the  best 
volume  of  Labiche  there  is,  and  post  it  to  Jules 
Simoneau,  Monterey,  Monterey  Co.,  California:  do 
this  at  once,  as  he  is  my  restaurant  man,  a  most 
pleasant  old  boy  with  whom  I  discuss  the  universe 
and  play  chess  daily.  He  has  been  out  of  France 
for  thirty-five  years,  and  never  heard  of  Labiche. 
I  have  eighty-three  pages  written  of  a  story  called 
A  Vendetta  in  the  West,  and  about  sixty  pages  of  the 
first  draft  of  the  Amateur  E^nigrant.  They  should 
each  cover  from  130  to  150  pages  when  done.  That 
is  all  my  literary  news.  Do  keep  me  posted,  won't 
you?  Your  letter  and  Bob's  made  the  fifth  and 
sixth  I  have  had  from  Europe  in  three  months. 

At  times  I  get  terribly  frightened  about  my  work, 
which  seems  to  advance  too  slowly.     I  hope  soon  to 

» Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


292       LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.«79 

have  a  greater  burthen  to  support,  and  must  make 
money  a  great  deal  quicker  than  I  used.  I  may  get 
nothing  for  the  Vendetta;  I  may  only  get  some 
forty  quid  for  the  Emigrant;  I  cannot  hope  to  have 
them  both  done  much  before  the  end  of  November. 

O,  and  look  here,  why  did  you  not  semi  me  the 
Spectator  which  slanged  me?  Rogues  and  rascals, 
is  that  all  you  are  worth? 

Yesterday  I  set  fire  to  the  forest,  for  which,  had  I 
been  caught,  I  should  have  been  hung  out  of  hand 
to  the  nearest  tree.  Judge  Lynch  being  an  active 
person  hereaway.  You  should  have  seen  my  re- 
treat (which  was  entirely  for  strategical  purposes), 
I  ran  like  hell.  It  was  a  fine  sight.  At  night  I 
went  out  again  to  see  it;  it  was  a  good  fire,  though  I 
say  it  that  should  not.  I  had  a  near  escape  for  my 
life  with  a  revolver:  I  fired  six  charges,  and  the  six 
bullets  all  remained  in  the  barrel,  which  was  choked 
from  end  to  end,  from  muzzle  to  breech,  with  solid 
lead;  it  took  a  man  three  hours  to  drill  them  out. 
Another  shot,  and  I'd  have  gone  to  kingdom  come. 

This  is  a  lovely  place,  which  I  am  growing  to  love. 
The  Pacific  licks  all  other  oceans  out  of  hand;  there 
is  no  place  but  the  Pacific  Coast  to  hear  eternal 
roaring  surf.  When  I  get  to  the  top  of  the  woods 
behind  Monterey,  I  can  hear  the  seas  breaking  all 
round  over  ten  or  twelve  miles  of  coast  from  near 
Carmel  on  my  left,  out  to  Point  Pinas  in  front,  and 
away  to  the  right  along  the  sands  of  Monterey  to 
Castroville  and  the  mouth  of  the  Salinas.  I  was 
wishing  yesterday  that  the  world  could  get — no, 
what  I  mean  was  that  you  should  be  kept  in  sus- 


AET.  29]  W.  E.  HENLEY  293 

pense  like  Mahomet's  coffin  until  the  world  had 
made  half  a  revolution,  then  dropped  here  at  the 
station  as  though  you  had  stepped  from  the  cars; 
you  would  then  comfortably  enter  Walter's  waggon 
(the  sun  has  just  gone  down,  the  moon  beginning  to 
throw  shadows,  you  hear  the  surf  rolling,  and  smell 
the  sea  and  the  pines).  That  shall  deposit  you  at 
Sanchez's  saloon,  where  we  take  a  drink;  you  are 
introduced  to  Bronson,  the  local  editor  ('I  have  no 
brain  music,'  he  says;  'I'm  a  mechanic,  you  see,' 
but  he's  a  nice  fellow);  to  Adolpho  Sanchez,  who 
is  delightful.  Meantime  I  go  to  the  P.  O.  for  my 
mail;  thence  we  walk  up  Alvarado  Street  together, 
you  now  floundering  in  the  sand,  now  merrily 
stumping  on  the  wooden  side-walks;  I  call  at  Had- 
sell's  for  my  paper;  at  length  behold  us  installed 
in  Simoneau's  little  whitewashed  back-room,  round 
a  dirty  tablecloth,  with  Franfois  the  baker,  perhaps 
an  Italian  fisherman,  perhaps  Augustin  Dutra,  and 
Simoneau  himself.  Simoneau,  Francois,  and  I  are 
the  three  sure  cards;  the  others  mere  waifs.  Then 
home  to  my  great  airy  rooms  with  five  windows  open- 
ing on  a  balcony;  I  sleep  on  the  floor  in  my  camp 
blankets;  you  instal  yourself  abed;  in  the  morning 
coffee  with  the  little  doctor  and  his  little  wife;  we 
hire  a  waggon  and  make  a  day  of  it;  and  by  night, 
I  should  let  you  up  again  into  the  air,  to  be  returned 
to  Mrs.  Henley  in  the  forenoon  following.  By  God, 
you  would  enjoy  yourself.  So  should  I.  I  have 
tales  enough  to  keep  you  going  till  five  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  then  they  would  not  be  at  an  end.  I  for- 
get if  you  asked  me  any  questions,  and  I  sent  your 


294        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [.8/9 

letter  up  to  the  city  to  one  who  will  like  to  read  it. 
I  expect  other  letters  now  steadily.  If  I  have  to 
wait  another  two  months,  I  shall  begin  to  be  happy. 
Will  you  remember  me  most  affectionately  to  your 
wife?  Shake  hands  with  Anthony  from  me;  and 
(jod  bless  your  mother. 

God  bless  Stephen!  Does  he  not  know  that  T  am 
a  man,  and  cannot  live  by  bread  alone,  but  must 
have  guineas  into  the  bargain.  Burns,  I  believe,  in 
my  own  mind,  is  one  of  my  high-water  marks; 
Meiklejohn  flames  me  a  letter  about  it,  which  is  so 
complimentary  that  I  must  keep  it  or  get  it  published 
in  the  Monterey  Californian.  Some  of  these  days 
I  shall  send  an  exemplaire  of  that  paper;  it  is  huge. 
— Ever  your  affectionate  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

Monterey,  21st  October  [1879] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,— Although  you  have  absolutely 
disregarded  my  plaintive  appeals  for  correspond- 
ence, and  written  only  once  as  against  God  knows 
how  many  notes  and  notikins  of  mine — here  goes 
again.  I  am  now  all  alone  in  Monterey,  a  real  in- 
habitant, with  a  box  of  my  own  at  the  P.  O.  I 
have  splendid  rooms  at  the  doctor's,  where  I  get 
coffee  in  the  morning  (the  doctor  is  French),  and  I 
mess  with  another  jolly  old  Frenchman,  the  stranded 
fifty-eight-year-old  wreck  of  a  good-hearted,  dissi- 
pated, and  once  wealthy  Nantais  tradesman.  My 
health  goes  on  better;    as  for  work,  the  draft  of  my 


AET.  29]  P.  G.   HAMERTON  295 

book  was  laid  aside  at  p.  68  or  so;  and  I  have  now, 
by  way  of  change,  more  than  seventy  pages  of  a 
novel,  a  one- volume  novel,  alas!  to  be  called  either 
A  Chapter  in  the  Experience  of  Arizona  Breckon- 
ridge  or  A  Vendetta  in  the  West,  or  a  combination 
of  the  two.  The  scene  from  Chapter  iv.  to  the 
end  lies  in  Monterey  and  the  adjacent  country;  of 
course,  with  my  usual  luck,  the  plot  of  the  story 
is  somewhat  scandalous,  containing  an  illegitimate 
father  for  piece  of  resistance.  .  .  .  Ever  yours, 

Jx.    1-1.    o. 

To  p.   G.  Hamerton 

The  following  refers  to  Mr.  Hamerton's  candidature,  which  was 
not  successful,  for  the  Professorship  of  Fine  Art  at  Edinburgh : — 

Monterey,  California  [November  1879] 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAMERTON, — Your  letter  to  my 
father  was  forwarded  to  me  by  mistake,  and  by  mis- 
take I  opened  it.  The  letter  to  myself  has  not  yet 
reached  me.  This  must  explain  my  own  and  my 
father's  silence.  I  shall  write  by  this  or  next  post 
to  the  only  friends  I  have  who,  I  think,  would  have 
an  influence,  as  they  are  both  professors.  I  regret 
exceedingly  that  I  am  not  in  Edinburgh,  as  I  could 
perhaps  have  done  more,  and  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  what  I  might  do  for  you  in  the  matter  of  the 
election  is  neither  from  friendship  nor  gratitude, 
but  because  you  are  the  only  man  (I  beg  your  par- 
don) worth  a  damn,  I  shall  write  to  a  third  friend,  now 
I  think  of  it,  whose  father  will  have  great  influence. 

I  find  here  (of  all  places  in  the  world)  your  Essays 
on  Art,  which  I  have  read  with  signal  interest.     I 


296        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      L.879 

believe  I  shall  dig  an  essay  of  my  own  out  of  one 
of  them,  for  it  set  me  thinking;  if  mine  could  only 
produce  yet  another  in  reply,  we  could  have  the 
marrow  out  between  us. 

1  hope,  my  dear  sir,  you  will  not  think  badly  of 
me  for  my  long  silence.  My  head  has  scarce  been 
on  my  shoulders.  I  had  scarce  recovered  from  a 
long  fit  of  useless  ill-health  than  I  was  whirled  over 
here  double-quick  time  and  by  cheapest  conveyance. 

I  have  been  since  pretty  ill,  but  pick  up,  though 
still  somewhat  of  a  mossy  ruin.  If  you  would  view 
my  countenance  aright,  come — view  it  by  the  pale 
moonlight.  But  that  is  on  the  mend.  I  believe  I 
have  now  a  distant  claim  to  tan. 

A  letter  will  be  more  than  welcome  in  this  distant 
clime,  where  I  have  a  box  at  the  post-office — gen- 
erally, I  regret  to  say,  empty.  Could  your  recom- 
mendation introduce  me  to  an  American  publisher? 
My  next  book  I  should  really  try  to  get  hold  of  here, 
as  its  interest  is  international,  and  the  more  I  am  in 
this  country  the  more  I  understand  the  weight  of 
your  influence.  It  is  pleasant  to  be  thus  most  at 
home  abroad,  above  all,  when  the  prophet  is  still 
not  without  honour  in  his  own  land.  .  .  . 


To  Edmund  Gosse 

The  copy  of  the  Monterey  paper  here  mentioned  never  came  to 
hand,  nor  have  the  contributions  of  R.  L.  S.  to  that  journal  ever 
been  traced. 

Monterey,  California,  i$lh  November  1879 

MY  DEAR  GOSSE, — Your  letter  was  to  me  such  a 
bright  spot  that  I  answer  it  right  away  to  the  prej- 


AET.  29]  EDMUiND  GOSSE  297 

udice  of  other  correspondents  or  -dants  (don't  know 
how  to  spell  it)  who  have  prior  claims.  ...  It  is  the 
history  of  our  kindnesses  that  alone  makes  this  world 
tolerable.  If  it  were  not  for  that,  for  the  effect  of 
kind  words,  kind  looks,  kind  letters,  multiplying, 
spreading,  making  one  happy  thft)ugh  another  and 
bringing  forth  benefits,  some  thirty,  some  fifty,  some 
a  thousandfold,  I  should  be  tempted  to  think  our 
Hfe  a  practical  jest  in  the  worst  possible  spirit.  So 
your  four  pages  have  confirmed  my  philosophy  as 
well  as  consoled  my  heart  in  these  ill  hours. 

Yes,  you  are  right;  Monterey  is  a  pleasant  place; 
but  I  see  I  can  write  no  more  to-night.  I  am  tired 
and  sad,  and  being  already  in  bed,  have  no  more  to 
do  but  turn  out  the  light. — Your  affectionate  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 

I  try  it  again  by  daylight.  Once  more  in  bed 
however;  for  to-day  it  is  muchofrio,  as  we  Spaniards 
say;  and  I  have  no  other  means  of  keeping  warm 
for  my  work.  I  have  done  a  good  spell,  g\  fools- 
cap pages;  at  least  8  of  Cornhill;  ah,  if  I  thought 
that  I  could  get  8  guineas  for  it.  My  trouble  is  that 
I  am  all  too  ambitious  just  now.  A  book  whereof  70 
out  of  120  are  scrolled.  A  novel  whereof  85  out  of, 
say,  140  are  pretty  well  nigh  done.  A  short  story 
of  50  pp.,  which  shall  be  finished  to-morrow,  or 
I'll  know  the  reason  why.  This  may  bring  in  a  lot 
of  money:  but  I  dread  to  think  that  it  is  all  on  three 
chances.  If  the  three  were  to  fail,  I  am  in  a  bog. 
The  novel  is  called  A  Vendetta  in  the  West.  I  see  I 
am  in  a  grasping,  dismal  humour,  and  should,  as 


298        LKTl  ERS  OF   S'lKVKNSON      [.879 

we  Americans  put  it,  quit  writing.  In  truth,  I  am 
so  haunted  by  anxieties  that  one  or  other  is  sure  to 
come  up  in  all  that  I  write. 

I  will  send  you  herewith  a  Monterey  paper  where 
the  works  of  R.  L.  S.  appear,  nor  only  that,  but  all 
my  life  on  studyiiig  the  advertisements  will  become 
clear.  I  lodge  with  Dr.  Hcintz;  take  my  meals 
with  Simoneau;  have  been  only  two  days  ago  shaved 
by  the  tonsorial  artist  Michaels;  drink  daily  at  the 
Bohemia  saloon;  get  my  daily  paper  from  Hadsell's; 
was  stood  a  drink  to-day  by  Albano  Rodriguez;  in 
short,  there  is  scarce  a  person  advertised  in  that 
paper  but  I  know  him,  and  I  may  add  scarce  a 
person  in  Monterey  but  is  there  advertised.  The 
paper  is  the  marrow  of  the  place.  Its  bones — pooh, 
I  am  tired  of  writing  so  sillily. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Monterey,  December,  1879] 

To-day,  my  dear  Colvin,  I  send  you  the  first  part 
of  the  Amateur  Emigrant,  71  pp.,  by  far  the  longest 
and  the  best  of  the  whole.  It  is  not  a  monument 
of  eloquence;  indeed,  I  have  sought  to  be  prosaic 
in  view  of  the  nature  of  the  subject;  but  I  almost 
think  it  is  interesting. 

Whatever  is  done  about  any  book  publication, 
two  things  remember:  I  must  keep  a  royalty;  and, 
second,  I  must  have  all  my  books  advertised,  in  the 
French  manner,  on  the  leaf  opposite  the  title.  I 
know  from  my  own  experience  how  much  good  this 
does  an  author  with  book  buyers. 


AET.  29]  EDMUND   GOSSE  299 

The  entire  A.  E.  will  be  a  little  longer  than  the  two 
others,  but  not  very  much.  Here  and  there,  I  fancy, 
you  will  laugh  as  you  read  it;  but  it  seems  to  me  rather 
a  clever  book  than  anything  else:  the  book  of  a  man, 
that  is,  who  has  paid  a  great  deal  of  attention  to 
contemporary  life,  and  not  through  the  newspapers. 

I  have  never  seen  my  Bumsl  the  darling  of  my 
heart!  I  await  your  promised  letter.  Papers,  maga- 
zines, articles  by  friends;  reviews  of  myself,  all  would 
be  very  welcome.  I  am  reporter  for  the  Monterey 
Calif ornian,  at  a  salary  of  two  dollars  a  week!  Com- 
ment trouvez-vous  ga?  I  am  also  in  a  conspiracy 
with  the  American  editor,  a  French  restaurant-man, 
and  an  Italian  fisherman  against  the  Padre.  The 
enclosed  poster  is  my  last  literary  appearance.*  It 
was  put  up  to  the  number  of  200  exemplaires  at  the 
witching  hour;  and  they  were  almost  all  destroyed 
by  eight  in  the  morning.  But  I  think  the  nickname 
will  stick.  Dos  Reales;  deux  reaux;  two  bits; 
twenty-five  cents;  about  a  shilling;  but  in  practice 
it  is  worth  from  ninepence  to  threepence:  thus  two 
glasses  of  beer  would  cost  two  bits.  The  Italian 
fisherman,  an  old  Garibaldian,  is  a  splendid  fellow. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

The  following  is   in   acknowledgment  of   Mr.  Gosse's   volume 

called  New  Poems: — 

Monterey,  Dec.  8,  1879 

MY  DEAR  WEG,— I  received  your  book  last  night 
as  I  lay  abed  with  a  pleurisy,  the  result,  I  fear,  of 
overwork;   gradual   decline  of   appetite,   etc.     You 


300        LKTTKRS  OF   SrKVP:NSON      [.879 

know  what  a  woodcn-hcarted  curmudgeon  I  am 
about  contemporary  verse.  I  like  none  of  it,  except 
some  of  my  own.  (I  look  back  on  that  sentence 
with  pleasure;  it  comes  from  an  honest  heart.) 
Hence  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  take  this  from  me 
in  a  kindly  spirit;  the  piece  *To  my  daughter'  is 
delicious.  And  yet  even  here  I  am  going  to  pick 
holes.  I  am  a  beastly  curmudgeon.  It  is  the  last 
verse.  *  Newly  budded '  is  otT  the  venue;  and  haven't 
you  gone  ahead  to  make  a  poetry  daybreak  instead 
of  sticking  to  your  muttons,  and  comparing  with 
the  mysterious  light  of  stars  the  plain,  friendly,  per- 
spicuous human  day?  But  this  is  to  be  a  beast. 
The  little  poem  is  eminently  pleasant,  human,  and 
original. 

I  have  read  nearly  the  whole  volume,  and  shall 
read  it  nearly  all  over  again;   you  have  no  rivals! 

Bancroft's  History  of  the  United  States,  even  in  a 
centenary  edition,  is  essentially  heavy  fare;  a  little 
goes  a  long  way;  I  respect  Bancroft,  but  I  do  not 
love  him;  he  has  moments  when  he  feels  himself  in- 
spired to  open  up  his  improvisations  upon  universal 
history  and  the  designs  of  God;  but  I  flatter  myself 
I  am  more  nearly  acquainted  with  the  latter  than 
Mr.  Bancroft.  A  man,  in  the  words  of  my  Plymouth 
Brother,  'who  knows  the  Lord,'  must  needs,  from 
time  to  time,  write  less  emphatically.  It  is  a  fetter 
dance  to  the  music  of  minute  guns-^not  at  sea,  but 
in  a  region  not  a  thousand  miles  from  the  Sahara. 
Still,  I  am  half-way  through  volume  three,  and  shall 
count  mvself  unworthv  of  the  name  of  an  English- 
man  if  I  do  not  see  the  back  of  volume  six.     The 


AET.  29]  EDMUND   GOSSE  301 

countryman  of  Livingstone,  Burton,  Speke,  Drake, 
Cook,  etc.! 

I  have  been  sweated  not  only  out  of  my  pleuritic 
fever,  but  out  of  all  my  eating  cares,  and  the  better 
part  of  my  brains  (strange  coincidence!),  by  aconite. 
I  have  that  peculiar  and  delicious  sense  of  being 
born  again  in  an  expurgated  edition  which  belongs 
to  convalescence.  It  will  not  be  for  long;  I  hear 
the  breakers  roar;  I  shall  be  steering  head  first  for 
another  rapid  before  many  days;  nitor  aquis,  said  a 
certain  Eton  boy,  translating  for  his  sins  a  part  of 
the  Inland  Voyage  into  Latin  elegiacs;  and  from  the 
hour  I  saw  it,  or  rather  a  friend  of  mine,  the  admi- 
rable Jenkin,  saw  and  recognised  its  absurd  appro- 
priateness, I  took  it  for  my  device  in  life.  I  am 
going  for  thirty  now;  and  unless  I  can  snatch  a 
little  rest  before  long,  I  have,  I  may  tell  you  in 
confidence,  no  hope  of  seeing  thirty-one.  My  health 
began  to  break  last  winter,  and  has  given  me  but 
fitful  times  since  then.  This  pleurisy,  though  but 
a  shght  affair  in  itself,  was  a  huge  disappointment  to 
me,  and  marked  an  epoch.  To  start  a  pleurisy  about 
nothing,  while  leading  a  dull,  regular  life  in  a  mild 
climate,  was  not  my  habit  in  past  days;  and  it  is 
six  years,  all  but  a  few  months,  since  I  was  obliged 
to  spend  twenty-four  hours  in  bed.  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  if  the  niting  is  to  continue,  I  believe  I 
must  go.  It  is  a  pity  in  one  sense,  for  I  believe 
the  class  of  work  I  might  yet  give  out  is  better  and 
more  real  and  solid  than  people  fancy.  But  death 
is  no  bad  friend;  a  few  aches  and  gasps,  and  we  are 
done;  like  the  truant  child,  I  am  beginning  to  grow 


302        LETIERS  OF  S'i'EVENSON      [.879 

weary  and  timid  in  this  big  jostling  city,  and  could 
run  to  my  nurse,  even  although  she  should  have  to 
whip  mc  before  putting  me  to  bed. 

Will  you  kiss  your  little  daughter  from  me,  and 
tell  her  that  her  father  has  written  a  delightful  poem 
about  her?  Remember  me,  please,  to  Mrs,  Gosse, 
to  Middlemore,  to  whom  some  of  these  days  I  will 

write,  to ,  to ,  yes,  to ,  and  to .     I 

know  you  will  gnash  your  teeth  at  some  of  these; 
wicked,  grim,  catlike  old  poet.  If  I  were  God,  I 
would  sort  you — as  we  say  in  Scotland. — Your  sin- 
cere friend,  R.  L.  S. 

*Too  young  to  be  our  child':  blooming  good. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

Monterey  [December  1879] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, —  I  have  been  down  with  pleurisy 
but  now  convalesce;  it  was  a  slight  attack,  but  I  had 
a  hot  fever;  pulse  150;  and  the  thing  reminds  me 
of  my  weakness.  These  miseries  tell  on  me  cruelly. 
But  things  are  not  so  hopeless  as  they  might  be  so  I 
nm  far  from  despair.  Besides  I  think  I  may  say  I 
have  some  courage  for  life. 

But  now  look  here: 

Fables  and  Tales 
Story  of  a  Lie     ....     100  pp.  like  the  Donkey. 
Providence  and  the  Guitar       52 
Will  o'  the  Mill  ....       45 
A  Lodging  for  the  Night  .       40  (about). 
Sieur  de  Maletroit's  Door  .       42 

say  280  pp.  in  all 


^T.  .9]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  303 

Here  is  my  scheme.  Henley  already  proposed 
that  Caldecott  should  illustrate  Will  0'  the  Mill. 
The  Guitar  is  still  more  suited  to  him;  he  should 
make  delicious  things  for  that.  And  though  the  Lie 
is  not  much  in  the  way  for  pictures,  I  should  like 
to  see  my  dear  Admiral  in  the  flesh.  I  love  the 
Admiral;  I  give  my  head,  that  man's  alive.  As 
for  the  other  two,  they  need  not  be  illustrated  at  all 
unless  he  likes. 

Is  this  a  dream  altogether?  I  would  if  necessary 
ask  nothing  down  for  the  stories,  and  only  a  small 
royalty  but  to  begin  from  the  first  copy  sold. 

I  hate  myself  for  being  always  on  business.     But  I 

cannot  help  my  fears  and  anxieties  about  money; 

even  if  all  came  well,  it  would  be  many  a  long  day 

before  we  could  afford  to  leave  this  coast.     Is  it 

true  that  the  Donkey  is  in  a  second  edition.     That 

should  bring  some  money,  too,  ere  long,  though  not 

much  I  dare  say.     You  will  see  the  Guitar  is  made 

for  Caldecott;   moreover  it's  a  little  thing  I  like.     I 

am  no  lover  of  either  of  the  things  in  Temple  Bar; 

but  they  will  make   up  the  volume,  and  perhaps 

others  may  like  them  better  than  I  do.     They  say 

republished  stories  do  not  sell.    Well,  that  is  why  I 

am  in  a  hurry  to  get  this  out.     The  public  must  be 

educated  to  buy  mine  or  I  shall  never  make  a  cent. 

I  have  heaps  of  short  stories  in  view.     The  next 

volume  will  probably  be  called  Stories  or  A  Story- 

Book,  and  contain  quite  a  different  lot:  The  Pavilion 

on  the  Links:  Professor  Rensselaer:  The  Dead  Man's 

Letter:    The  Wild  Man  of  the  Woods:    The  Devil 

on  Cramond  Sands.     They  would  all  be  carpentry 


30+        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [1879 

stories;  pretty  grim  for  the  most  part;  but  of  course 
that's  all  in  the  air  as  yet.— Yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

Monterey,  December  nth,  1879 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Many,  many  thanks  for  your 
long  letter.     And  now  to  rectifications: — 

1.  You  are  wrong  about  the  Lie,  from  choosing 
a  wrong  standard.  Compare  it  with  my  former 
stories,  not  with  Scott,  or  Fielding,  or  Balzac,  or 
Charles  Reade,  or  even  Wilkie  Collins;  and  where 
will  you  fmd  anything  half  or  a  tenth  part  as  good 
as  the  Admiral,  or  even  Dick,  or  even  the  Squire,  or 
even  Esther.  If  you  had  thought  of  that,  you  would 
have  complimented  me  for  advance.  But  you  were 
not  c[uite  sincere  with  yourself;  you  were  seeking 
arguments  to  make  me  devote  myself  to  plays,  unbe- 
known, of  course,  to  yourself. 

2.  Plays,  dear  boy,  are  madness  for  me  just  now. 
The  best  play  is  hopeless  before  six  months,  and  more 
likely  eighteen  for  outsiders  like  you  and  me.  And 
understand  me,  I  have  to  get  money  soon,  or  it  has 
no  further  interest' for  me;  I  am  nearly  through  my 
capital;  with  what  pluck  I  can  muster  against  great 
anxieties  and  in  a  very  shattered  state  of  health,  I 
am  trying  to  do  things  that  will  bring  in  money  soon; 
and  I  could  not,  if  I  were  not  mad,  step  out  of  my 
way  to  work  at  what  might  perhaps  bring  me  in  more 
but  months  ahead.  Journalism,  you  know  well,  is 
not  my  forte;  yet  if  I  could  only  get  a  roving  com- 


AET.  29]  W.   E.   HENLEY  305 

mission  from  a  paper,  I  should  leap  at  it  and  send 
them  goodish  (no  more  than  that)  goodish  stuff. 

As  for  my  poor  literature,  dear  Henley,  you  must 
expect  for  a  time  to  find  it  worse  and  worse.  Per- 
haps, if  God  favours  me  a  little  at  last,  it  will  pick 
up  again.  Now  I  am  fighting  with  both  hands,  a 
hard  battle,  and  my  work,  while  it  will  be  as  good 
as  I  can  make  it,  will  probably  be  worth  twopence. 
If  you  despised  the  Donkey,  dear  boy,  you  should 
have  told  me  so  at  the  time,  not  reserved  it  for  a  sud- 
den revelation  just  now  when  I  am  down  in  health, 
wealth,  and  fortune.  But  I  am  glad  you  have  said 
so  at  last.  Never,  please,  delay  such  confidences 
any  more.  If  they  come  quickly,  they  are  a  help; 
if  they  come  after  long  silence,  they  feel  almost 
like  a  taunt. 

Now,  to  read  all  this,  any  one  would  think  you 
had  written  unkindly,  which  is  not  so,  as  God  who 
made  us  knows.  But  I  wished  to  put  myself  right 
ere  I  went  on  to  state  myself.  Nothing  has  come 
but  the  volume  of  Labiche;  the  Burns  I  have  now 
given  up;  the  P.  O.  authorities  plainly  regard  it  as 
contraband;  make  no  further  efforts  in  that  direc- 
tion. But,  please,  if  anything  else  of  mine  appears, 
see  that  my  people  have  a  copy.  I  hoped  and  sup- 
posed my  own  copy  would  go  as  usual  to  the  old 
address,  and,  let  me  use  Scotch,  I  was  fair  affrontit 
when  I  found  this  had  not  been  done. 

You  have  not  told  me  how  you  are  and  I  heard 
you  had  not  been  well.     Please  remedy  this. 

The  end  of  life  ?  Yes,  Henley,  I  can  tell  you  what 
that  is.     How  old  are  all  truths,  and  yet  how  far 


3o6        iJri'l'KRS  OV  SIKVKNSON      [.S79 

from  commonplace;  old,  strange,  and  inexplicable, 
like  the  Sphinx.  So  I  learn  day  by  day  the  value 
and  high  doctrinality  of  sufTering.  Let  me  suffer 
always;  not  more  than  I  am  able  to  bear,  for  that 
makes  a  man  mad,  as  hunger  drives  the  wolf  to 
sally  from  the  forest;  but  still  to  suffer  some,  and 
never  to  sink  up  to  my  eyes  in  comfort  and  grow 
dead  in  virtues  and  respectability.  I  am  a  bad  man 
by  nature,  I  suppose;  but  I  cannot  be  good  without 
suffering  a  little.  And  the  end  of  life,  you  will  ask? 
The  pleasurable  death  of  self:  a  thing  not  to  be 
attained,  because  it  is  a  thing  belonging  to  Heaven. 
All  this  apropos  of  that  good,  weak,  feverish,  fine 

spirit, .     We  have  traits  in  common;   we 

have  almost  the  same  strength  and  weakness  inter- 
mingled; and  if  I  had  not  come  through  a  very  hot 
crucible,  I  should  be  just  as  feverish.  My  sufferings 
have  been  healthier  than  his;  mine  have  been  always 
a  choice,  where  a  man  could  be  manly:  his  have 
been  so  too,  if  he  knew  it,  but  were  not  so  upon  the 
face;  hence  a  morbid  strain,  which  his  wounded 
vanity  has  helped  to  embitter. 

I  wonder  why  I  scratch  every  one  to-day.  And  I 
believe  it  is  because  I  am  conscious  of  so  much 
truth  in  your  strictures  on  my  damned  stuff.  I 
don't  care;  there  is  something  in  me  worth  saying, 
though  I  can't  find  what  it  is  just  yet;  and  ere  I  die, 
if  I  do  not  die  too  fast,  I  shall  write  something  worth 
the  boards,  which  with  scarce  an  exception  I  have  not 
yet  done.  At  the  same  time,  dear  boy,  in  a  matter 
of  vastly  more  imjHjrtance  than  Opera  Omnia  Ludo- 
\ici  Stevenson,  I  mean   my  life,  T  have  not  been  a 


AET.  29]        '    SIDNEY  COLVIN  307 

perfect  cad;  God  help  me  to  be  less  and  less  so  as 
the  days  go  on. 

The  Emigrant  is  not  good,  and  will  never  do  for 
P.M.G.,  though  it  must  have  a  kind  of  rude  interest. 

R.  L.  S. 

I  am  now  quite  an  American — yellow  envelopes. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco 
{December  26,  1879] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  am  now  writing  to  you  in  a 
cafe  waiting  for  some  music  to  begin.  For  four  days 
I  have  spoken  to  no  one  but  to  my  landlady  or  land- 
lord or  to  restaurant  waiters.  This  is  not  a  gay  way 
to  pass  Christmas,  is  it?  and  I  must  own  the  guts 
are  a  little  knocked  out  of  me.  If  I  could  work,  I 
could  worry  through  better.  But  I  have  no  style 
at  command  for  the  moment,  with  the  second  part 
of  the  Emigrant,  the  last  of  the  novel,  the  essay  on 
Thoreau,  and  God  knows  all,  waiting  for  me.  But 
I  trust  something  can  be  done  with  the  first  part,  or, 
by  God,  I'll  starve  here.  .  .  } 

O  Colvin,  you  don't  know  how  much  good  I  have 
done  myself.  I  feared  to  think  this  out  by  myself. 
I  have  made  a  base  use  of  you,  and  it  comes  out  so 
much  better  than  I  had  dreamed  of.  But  I  have 
to  stick  to  work  now;  and  here's  December  gone 
pretty  near  useless.  But,  Lord  love  you,  October 
and  November  saw  a  great  harvest.  It  might  have 
affected  the  price  of  paper  on  the  Pacific  Coast.     As 

*  Here  follows  a  long  calculation  of  ways  and  means. 


3o8        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.sso 

for  ink,  they  haven't  any,  not  what  I  call  ink;  only 
slulT  to  write  cookery-books  with,  or  the  works  of 
Haylcy,  or  the  pallid  perambulations  of  the — I 
can  find  nobody  to  beat  Haylcy.  I  like  good,  knock- 
mc-down  black-strap  to  write  with;  that  makes  a 
mark  and  done  with  it. — By  the  way,  I  have  tried 
to  read  the  Spectator,^  which  they  all  say  I  imitate, 
and — it's  very  wrong  of  me,  I  know — but  I  can't. 
It's  all  very  fine,  you  know,  and  all  that,  but  it's 
vapid.  They  have  just  played  the  overture  to 
Norma,  and  I  know  it's  a  good  one,  for  I  bitterly 
wanted  the  opera  to  go  on;  I  had  just  got  thor- 
oughly interested — and  then  no  curtain  to  rise. 

I  have  written  myself  into  a  kind  of  spirits,  bless 
your  dear  heart,  by  your  leave.  But  this  is  wild 
work  for  me,  nearly  nine  and  me  not  back!  What 
will  Mrs.  Carson  think  of  me!  Quite  a  night-hawk, 
I  do  declare.  You  are  the  worst  correspondent  in 
the  world — no,  not  that,  Henley  is  that — well,  I  don't 
know,  I  leave  the  pair  of  you  to  him  that  made  you — 
surely  with  small  attention.  But  here's  my  service, 
and  I'll  away  home  to  my  den  O!  much  the  better 
for  this  crack.  Professor  Colvin. 

K..  L<.  o. 
To  Sidney  Colvin 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco 
[January  10,  1880] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — This  is  a  circular  letter  to  tell 
my  estate  fully.  You  have  no  right  to  it,  being  the 
worst  of  correspondents;  but  I  wish  to  efface  the 
impression  of  my  last,  so  to  you  it  goes. 

'  Addison's. 


AET.  30]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  309 

Any  time  between  eight  and  half-past  nine  in  the 
morning,  a  slender  gentleman  in  an  ulster,  with  a 
volume  buttoned  into  the  breast  of  it,  may  be  ob- 
served leaving  No.  608  Bush  and  descending  Powell 
with  an  active  step.  The  gentleman  is  R.  L.  S.; 
the  volume  relates  to  Benjamin  Franklin,  on  whom 
he  meditates  one  of  his  charming  essays.  He  de- 
scends Powell,  crosses  Market,  and  descends  in 
Sixth  on  a  branch  of  the  original  Pine  Street  Coffee 
House,  no  less;  I  believe  he  would  be  capable  of 
going  to  the  original  itself,  if  he  could  only  find  it. 
In  the  branch  he  seats  himself  at  a  table  covered 
with  waxcloth,  and  a  pampered  menial,  of  High- 
Dutch  extraction  and,  indeed,  as  yet  only  partially 
extracted,  lays  before  him  a  cup  of  coffee,  a  roll  and 
a  pat  of  butter,  all,  to  quote  the  deity,  very  good. 
A  while  ago  and  R.  L.  S.  used  to  find  the  supply  of 
butter  insufficient;  but  he  has  now  learned  the  art  to 
exactitude,  and  butter  and  roll  expire  at  the  same 
moment.  For  this  refection  he  pays  ten  cents,  or  five 
pence  sterling  (;^o,  os.  5d.). 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  inhabitants  of  Bush  Street 
observe  the  same  slender  gentleman  armed,  like 
George  Washington,  with  his  little  hatchet,  splitting 
kindling,  and  breaking  coal  for  his  fire.  He  does 
this  quasi-publicly  upon  the  window-sill;  but  this  is 
not  to  be  attributed  to  any  love  of  notoriety,  though  he 
is  indeed  vain  of  his  prowess  with  the  hatchet  (which 
he  persists  in  calling  an  axe),  and  daily  surprised 
at  the  perpetuation  of  his  fingers.  The  reason  is 
this:  that  the  sill  is  a  strong,  supporting  beam,  and 
that  blows  of  the  same  emphasis  in  other  parts  of 


310        LETTERS  OF   STEVENSON      [.880 

his  room  might  knock  the  entire  shanty  into  hell. 
Thenceforth,  for  from  three  to  four  hours,  he  is 
engaged  darkly  with  an  ink  bottle.  Yet  he  is  not 
blacking  his  boots,  for  the  only  jjair  that  he  jjossesses 
are  innocent  of  lustre  and  wear  the  natural  hue  of 
the  material  turned  up  with  caked  and  venerable 
slush.  The  youngest  child  of  his  landlady  remarks 
several  times  a  day,  as  this  strange  occupant  enters 
or  quits  the  house,  '  Dere's  de  author.'  Can  it  be 
that  this  bright-haired  innocent  has  found  the  true 
clue  to  the  mystery?  The  being  in  question  is,  at 
least,  poor  enough  to  belong  to  that  honourable  craft. 
His  next  appearance  is  at  the  restaurant  of  one 
Donadieu,  in  Bush  Street,  between  Dupont  and 
Kearney,  where  a  copious  meal,  half  a  bottle  of  wine, 
coffee  and  brandy  may  be  procured  for  the  sum  of 
four  bits,  alias  fifty  cents,  ;,^o,  2s.  2d.  sterling.  The 
wine  is  put  down  in  a  whole  bottleful,  and  it  is  strange 
and  painful  to  observe  the  greed  with  which  the 
gentleman  in  question  seeks  to  secure  the  last  drop 
of  his  allotted  half,  and  the  scrupulousness  with  which 
he  seeks  to  avoid  taking  the  first  drop  of  the  other. 
This  is  partly  explained  by  the  fact  that  if  he  were 
to  go  over  the  mark — bang  would  go  a  ten  pence. 
He  is  again  armed  with  a  book,  but  his  best  friends 
will  learn  with  pain  that  he  seems  at  this  hour  to 
have  deserted  the  more  serious  studies  of  the  morn- 
ing. When  last  observed,  he  was  studying  with 
apparent  zest  the  exploits  of  one  Rocambole  by  the 
late  Viscomte  Ponson  du  Terrail.  This  work,  orig- 
inally of  prodigious  dimensions,  he  had  cut  into  liths 
or  thicknesses  apparently  for  convenience  of  carriage. 


AET.  30]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  311 

Then  the  being  walks,  where  is  not  certain.  But 
by  about  half-past  four,  a  light  beams  from  the  win- 
dows of  608  Bush,  and  he  may  be  observed  some^ 
times  engaged  in  correspondence,  sometimes  once 
again  plunged  in  the  mysterious  rites  of  the  fore- 
noon. About  six  he  returns  to  the  Branch  Original, 
where  he  once  more  imbrues  himself  to  the  worth 
of  fivepence  in  coffee  and  roll.  The  evening  is  de- 
voted to  writing  and  reading,  and  by  eleven  or  half- 
past  darkness  closes  over  this  weird  and  truculent 
existence. 

As  for  coin,  you  see  I  don't  spend  much,  only 
you  and  Henley  both  seem  to  think  my  work  rather 
bosh  nowadays,  and  I  do  want  to  make  as  much 
as  I  was  making,  that  is  ;^2oo;  if  I  can  do  that,  I 
can  swim:  last  year  with  my  ill  health  I  touched 
only  ;)^i09;  that  would  not  do,  I  could  not  fight 
through  on  that;  but  on  ;i^2oo,  as  I  say,  I  am  good 
for  the  world,  and  can  even  in  this  quiet  way  save  a 
little,  and  that  I  must  do.  The  worst  is  my  health; 
it  is  suspected  I  had  an  ague  chill  yesterday;  I  shall 
know  by  to-morrow,  and  you  know  if  I  am  to  be 
laid  down  with  ague  the  game  is  pretty  well  lost. 
But  I  don't  know;  I  managed  to  write  a  good  deal 
down  in  Monterey,  when  I  was  pretty  sickly  most 
of  the  time,  and,  by  God,  I'll  try,  ague  and  all.  I 
have  to  ask  you  frankly,  when  you  write,  to  give  me 
any  good  news  you  can,  and  chat  a  little,  but  just 
in  the  meantime,  give  me  no  bad.  If  I  could  get 
Thoreau,  Emigrant  and  Vendetta  all  finished  and  out 
of  my  hand,  I  should  feel  like  a  man  who  had 
made  half  a  year's  income  in  a  half  year;  but  until 


312        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.sso 

the  two  last  are  finished,  you  see,  they  don't  fairly 
count. 

I  am  afraid  I  bore  you  sadly  with  this  perpetual 
talk  about  my  affairs;  I  will  try  and  stow  it;  but 
you  see,  it  touches  me  nearly.  I'm  the  miser  in 
earnest  now:  last  night,  when  I  felt  so  ill,  the  sup- 
posed ague  chill,  it  seemed  strange  not  to  be  able  to 
afford  a  drink.  I  would  have  walked  half  a  mile, 
tired  as  I  felt,  for  a  brandy  and  soda. — Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

608  Bush  Street, 
San  Francisco,  January  1880 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — You  have  got  a  letter  ahead 
of  me,  owing  to  the  Alpine  accumulation  of  ill  news  I 
had  to  stagger  under.  I  will  stand  no  complaints  of 
my  correspondence  from  England,  I  having  written 
near  half  as  many  letters  again  as  I  have  received. 

Do  not  damp  me  about  my  work;  qii'eUe  soil  bonne 
ou  mauvaise,  it  has  to  be  done.  You  know  the  wolf 
is  at  the  door,  and  I  have  been  seriously  ill.  I  am 
now  at  Thoreau.  I  almost  blame  myself  for  perse- 
vering in  anything  so  difficult  under  the  circum- 
stances: but  it  may  set  me  up  again  in  style,  which 
is  the  great  point.  I  have  now  ;^8o  in  the  world 
and  two  houses  to  keep  up  for  an  indefinite  period. 
It  is  odd  to  be  on  so  strict  a  regimen;  it  is  a  week 
for  instance  since  I  have  bought  myself  a  drink,  and 
unless  times  change,  I  do  not  suppose  I  shall  ever 
buy  myself  another.  The  health  improves.  The  Pied 
Piper  is  an  idea;   it  shall  have  my  thoughts,  and  so 


AET.  30]  W.   E.   HENLEY  313 

shall  you.  The  character  of  the  P.  P.  would  be 
highly  comic,  I  seem  to  see.  Had  you  looked  at  the 
Pavilion,  I  do  not  think  you  would  have  sent  it  to 
Stephen;  'tis  a  mere  story,  and  has  no  higher  pre- 
tension: Dibbs  is  its  name,  I  wish  it  was  its  nature 
also.  The  Vendetta,  at  which  you  ignorantly  puff 
out  your  lips,  is  a  real  novel,  though  not  a  good  one. 
As  soon  as  I  have  found  strength  to  finish  the  Emi- 
grant, I  shall  also  finish  the  Vend,  and  draw  a  breath 
— I  wish  I  could  say,  'and  draw  a  cheque.'  My 
spirits  have  risen  contra  fortunam;  I  will  fight  this 
out,  and  conquer.  You  are  all  anxious  to  have  me 
home  in  a  hurry.  There  are  two  or  three  objections 
to  that;  but  I  shall  instruct  you  more  at  large  when 
I  have  time,  for  to-day  I  am  hunted,  having  a  pile 
of  letters  before  me.  Yet  it  is  already  drawing  into 
dusk. — Yours  affectionately, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

.  The  Dook  de  Karneel  (=  Cornhill)  and  Marky  de  Stephen  is 
of  course  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen.  The  'blood  and  thunder'  is  The 
Pavilion  on  the  Links.  Hester  Noble  and  Don  Juan  were  the 
titles  of  two  plays  planned  and  begun  with  W.  E.  Henley  the 
previous  winter.  They  were  never  finished.  The  French  novels 
mentioned  are  by  Joseph  Mery.  The  Dialogue  on  Character  and 
Destiny  still  exists  in  a  fragmentary  condition.  George  the  Pieman 
is  a  character  in  Deacon  Brodie. 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco, 
January  2yd,  1880 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — That  was  good  news.  The 
Dook  de  Karneel,  K.C.B.,  taken  a  blood  and  thunder! 
Well,  I  thought  it  had  points;  now,  I  know  it.  And 
I'm  to  see  a  proof  once  more!     O  Glory  Hallelujah, 


314        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.880 

how  beautiful  is  proof,  And  how  distressed  that 
author  man  who  dwells  too  far  aloof.  His  favour- 
ite words  he  always  finds  his  friends  misunderstand, 
With  oaths,  he  reads  his  articles,  moist  brow  and 
clenched  hand.  Impromtoo.  The  last  line  first-rate. 
When  may  I  hope  to  see  the  Deacon.  I  pine  for 
the  Deacon,  for  proofs  of  the  Pavilion — O  and  for 
a  categorical  confession  from  you  that  the  second 
edition  of  the  Donkey  was  a  false  alarm,  which  I 
conclude  from  hearing  no  more. 

I  have  twice  written  to  the  Marky  de  Stephen; 
each  time  with  one  of  my  bright  papers,  so  I  should 
hear  from  him  soon.  How  are  Baron  Payn,  Sir 
Robert  de  Bob,  and  other  members  of  the  Aris- 
tocracy ? 

Here's  breid  an'  wine  an'  kcbbuck  an'  canty  cracks  at  e'en 
To  the  folks  that  mind  o'  me  when  I'm  awa', 

But  them  that  hac  forgot  mc,  O  ne'er  to  be  forgi'en — 
They  may  a'  gae  tapsalteerie  in  a  raw! 

I  have  mighty  little  to  say,  dear  boy,  to  seem  worth 
2W.  I  have  thought  of  the  Piper,  but  he  does  not 
seem  to  come  as  yet;  I  get  him  too  metaphysical. 
I  shall  make  a  shot  for  Hester,  as  soon  as  I  have 
finished  the  Emigrant  and  the  Vendetta  and  perhaps 
my  Dialogue  on  Character  and  Destiny.  Hester  and 
Don  Juan  are  the  two  that  smile  on  me;  but  I  will 
touch  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  play  until  I  have  made 
my  year's  income  sure.  You  understand,  and  you 
see  that  I  am  right? 

I  have  read  M.  Auguste  and  the  Crime  inconnu, 
being  now  abonne  to  a  library,  and  found  them  very 


AET.  30]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  315 

readable,  highly  ingenious,  and  so  French  that  I 
could  not  keep  my  gravity.  The  Damned  Ones  of 
the  Indies  now  occupy  my  attention;  I  have  myself 
already  damned  them  repeatedly.  I  am,  as  you 
know,  the  original  person  the  wheels  of  whose  chariot 
tarried;  but  though  I  am  so  slow,  I  am  rootedly 
tenacious.  Do  not  despair.  Hester  and  the  Don 
are  sworn  in  my  soul;  and  they  shall  be. 

Is  there  no  news}  Real  news,  newsy  news. 
Heavenly  blue,  this  is  strange.  Remember  me  to 
the  lady  of  the  Cawstle,  my  toolip,  and  ever  was, 

George  the  Pieman 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

With  reference  to  the  following,  it  must  be  explained  that  the  first 
draft  of  the  first  part  of  the  Amateur  Emigrant,  when  it  reached 
me  about  Christmas,  had  seemed  to  me,  compared  to  his  previous 
travel  papers,  a  somewhat  wordy  and  spiritless  record  of  squalid 
experiences,  little  likely  to  advance  his  still  only  half-established 
reputation;  and  I  had  written  to  him  to  that  effect,  inopportunely 
enough,  with  a  fuller  measure  even  than  usual  of  the  frankness 
which  always  marked  our  intercourse. 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco, 
California  [January  1880] 

MY  DEAR  colvin, — I  received  this  morning  your 
long  letter  from  Paris.  Well,  God's  will  be  done; 
if  it's  dull,  it's  dull;  it  was  a  fair  fight,  and  it's  lost, 
and  there's  an  end.  But,  fortunately,  dulness  is 
not  a  fault  the  public  hates;  perhaps  they  may  like 
this  vein  of  dulness.  If  they  don't,  damn  them,  we'll 
try  them  with  another.  I  sat  down  on  the  back  of 
your  letter,  and  wrote  twelve  Cornhill  pages  this  day 
as  ever  was  of  that  same  despised  Emigrant;  so  you 
see  my  moral  courage  has  not  gone  down  with  my 


3i6        LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON      [.sso 

intellect.  Only,  frankly,  Colvin,  do  you  think  it  a 
good  plan  to  be  so  eminently  descriptive,  and  even 
eloquent  in  dispraise?  You  rolled  such  a  lot  of 
polysyllables  over  me  that  a  better  man  than  I  might 
have  been  disheartened. — However,  I  was  not,  as 
you  see,  and  am  not.  The  Emigrant  shall  l)e  finished 
and  leave  in  the  course  of  next  week.  And  then, 
I'll  stick  to  stories.  I  am  not  frightened.  I  know 
my  mind  is  changing;  I  have  been  telling  you  so 
for  long;  and  I  suppose  I  am  fumbling  for  the  new 
vein.     Well,  I'll  find  it. 

The  Vendetta  you  will  not  much  like,  I  dare  say: 
and  that  must  be  finished  next;  but  I'll  knock  you 
with  The  Forest  State:   A  Romance. 

I'm  vexed  about  my  letters;  I  know  it  is  painful 
to  get  these  unsatisfactory  things;  but  at  least  I 
have  written  often  enough.  And  not  one  soul  ever 
gives  me  any  news,  about  people  or  things;  every- 
body writes  me  sermons;  it's  good  for  me,  but 
hardly  the  food  necessary  for  a  man  who  lives  all 
alone  on  forty-five  cents  a  day,  and  sometimes  less, 
with  quantities  of  hard  work  and  many  heavy 
thoughts.  If  one  of  you  could  write  me  a  letter 
with  a  jest  in  it,  a  letter  like  what  is  written  to  real 
people  in  this  world — I  am  still  flesh  and  blood — I 
should  enjoy  it.  Simpson  did,  the  other  day,  and 
it  did  me  as  much  good  as  a  bottle  of  wine.  A 
lonely  man  gets  to  feel  like  a  pariah  after  awhile — 
or  no,  not  that,  but  like  a  saint  and  martyr,  or  a 
kind  of  macerated  clergyman  with  pebbles  in  his 
boots,  a  pillared  Simeon,  I'm  damned  if  I  know 
what,  ])ut,  man  ali\e,  T  want  gossip. 


AET.  3o]  EDMUND   GOSSE  317 

My  health  is  better,  my  spirits  steadier,  I  am  not 
the  least  cast  down.  If  the  Emigrant  was  a  failure, 
the  Pavilion,  by  your  leave,  was  not:  it  was  a  story 
quite  adequately  and  rightly  done,  I  contend;  and 
when  I  find  Stephen,  for  whom  certainly  I  did  not 
mean  it,  taking  it  in,  I  am  better  pleased  with  it 
than  before.  I  know  I  shall  do  better  work  than 
ever  I  have  done  before;  but,  mind  you,  it  will  not 
be  like  it.  My  sympathies  and  interests  are  changed. 
There  shall  be  no  more  books  of  travel  for  me.  I 
care  for  nothing  but  the  moral  and  the  dramatic, 
not  a  jot  for  the  picturesque  or  the  beautiful,  other 
than  about  people.  It  bored  me  hellishly  to  write 
the  Emigrant;  well,  it's  going  to  bore  others  to  read 
it;  that's  only  fair. 

I  should  also  write  to  others;  but  indeed  I  am 
jack-tired,  and  must  go  to  bed  to  a  French  novel  to 
compose  myself  for  slumber. — Ever  your  affection- 
ate friend, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco, 
California,  Jan,  23,  1880 

MY  DEAR  AND  KIND  WEG, — It  was  a  lesson  in 
philosophy  that  would  have  moved  a  bear,  to  re- 
ceive your  letter  in  my  present  temper.  For  I  am 
now  well  and  well  at  my  ease,  both  by  comparison. 
First,  my  health  has  turned  a  corner;  it  was  not 
consumption  this  time,  though  consumption  it  has 
to  be  some  time,  as  all  my  kind  friends  sing  to 
me,  day  in,  day  out.    Consumption !  how  I  hate  that 


3i8        LKTTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [1880 

word;  yet  it  can  sound  innocent,  as,  e.g.,  consump- 
tion of  military  stores.  What  was  wrong  with  me, 
apart  from  colds  and  little  pleuritic  flea-bites,  was  a 
lingering  malaria;  and  that  is  now  greatly  overcome. 
I  eat  once  more,  which  is  a  great  amusement  and, 
they  say,  good  for  the  health.  Second,  many  of  the 
thunderclouds  that  were  overhanging  me  when  last 
I  wrote,  have  silently  stolen  away  like  Longfellow's 
Arabs:  and  I  am  now  engaged  to  be  married  to  the 
woman  whom  I  have  loved  for  three  years  and  a 
half.  I  do  not  yet  know  when  the  marriage  can 
come  off;  for  there  are  many  reasons  for  delay. 
But  as  few  people  before  marriage  have  known  each 
other  so  long  or  made  more  trials  of  each  other's 
tenderness  and  constancy,  I  permit  myself  to  hope 
some  quiet  at  the  end  of  all.  At  least  I  will  boast 
myself  so  far;  I  do  not  think  many  wives  are  better 
loved  than  mine  will  be.  Third  and  last,  in  the 
order  of  what  has  changed  my  feelings,  my  people 
have  cast  me  off,  and  so  that  thundercloud,  as  you 
may  almost  say,  has  overblown.  You  know  more 
than  most  people  whether  or  not  I  loved  my  father.* 

'  In  reference  to  the  father's  estrangement  at  this  time,  Sir  James 
Dewar,  an  old  friend  of  the  elder  Stevenson,  tells  a  story  which 
would  have  touchefl  R.  L.  S.  infinitely  had  he  heard  it.  Sir  James 
(then  Professor)  Dewar  and  Mr.  Thomas  Stevenson  were  engaged 
together  on  some  ofTicial  scientific  work  near  Duns  in  Berwickshire. 
'Spending  the  evening  together,'  writes  Sir  James,  'at  an  hotel  in 
Berwick-on-Tweed,  the  two,  after  a  long  day's  work,  fell  into  close 
fireside  talk  over  their  toddy,  and  Mr.  Stevenson  opened  his  heart 
upon  what  was  to  him  a  very  sore  grievance.  He  spoke  with  anger 
and  dismay  of  his  son's  journey  and  intentions,  his  desertion  of  the 
old  firm,  and  taking  to  the  devious  and  barren  paths  of  literature. 
The  Professor  took  up  the  cudgels  in  the  son's  defence,  and  at  last, 
by  way  of  ending  the  argument,  half  jocularly  offered  to  wager 
that  in  ten  years  from  that  moment  R.  L.  S.  would  be  earning  a 


AET.  30]  EDMUND   GOSSE  319 

These  things  are  sad;  nor  can  any  man  forgive  him- 
self for  bringing  them  about;  yet  they  are  easier 
to  meet  in  fact  than  by  anticipation.  I  almost 
trembled  whether  I  was  doing  right,  until  I  was 
fairly  summoned;  then,  when  I  found  that  I  was 
not  shaken  one  jot,  that  I  could  grieve,  that  I  could 
sharply  blame  myself,  for  the  past,  and  yet  never 
hesitate  one  second  as  to  my  conduct  in  the  future, 
I  believed  my  cause  was  just  and  I  leave  it  with  the 
Lord.  I  certainly  look  for  no  reward,  nor  any  abid- 
ing city  either  here  or  hereafter,  but  I  please  myself 
with  hoping  that  my  father  will  not  always  think  so 
badly  of  my  conduct  nor  so  very  slightingly  of  my 
affection  as  he  does  at  present. 

You  may  now  understand  that  the  quiet  economi- 
cal citizen  of  San  Francisco  who  now  addresses  you, 
a  bonhomme  given  to  cheap  living,  early  to  bed 
though  scarce  early  to  rise  in  proportion  (que  diable ! 
let  us  have  style,  anyway)  busied  with  his  little  bits 
of  books  and  essays  and  with  a  fair  hope  for  the 
future,  is  no  longer  the  same  desponding,  invalid 
son  of  a  doubt  and  an  apprehension  who  last  wrote 
to  you  from  Monterey.  I  am  none  the  less  warmly 
obliged  to  you  and  Mrs.  Gosse  for  your  good  words. 

bigger  income  than  the  old  firm  had  ever  commanded.  To  his 
surprise,  the  father  became  furious,  and  repulsed  all  attempts  at 
reconciliation.  But  six  and  a  half  years  later,  Mr.  Stevenson, 
broken  in  health,  came  to  London  to  seek  medical  advice,  and 
although  so  feeble  that  he  had  to  be  lifted  out  and  into  his  cab, 
called  at  the  Royal  Institute  to  see  the  Professor.  He  said:  "I 
am  here  to  consult  a  doctor,  but  I  couldna  be  in  London  without 
coming  to  shake  your  hand  and  confess  that  you  were  richt  after  a' 
about  Louis,  and  I  was  wrang."  The  frail  old  frame  shook  with 
emotion,  and  he  muttered,  "I  ken  this  is  my  last  visit  to  the  south." 
A  few  weeks  later  he  was  dead.' 


320        LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [.880 

I  suppose  that  I  am  the  devil  (hearing  it  so  often), 
but  I  am  not  unj^rateful.  Only  please,  Weg,  do 
not  talk  of  genius  about  mc;  I  do  not  think  I  want 
for  a  certain  talent,  but  I  am  heartily  persuaded  I 
have  none  of  the  other  commodity;  so  let  that  stick 
to  the  wall:  you  only  shame  me  by  such  friendly 
exaggerations. 

When  shall  I  be  married?  When  shall  I  be  able 
to  return  to  England  ?  When  shall  I  join  the  good 
and  blessed  in  a  forced  march  upon  the  New  Jeru- 
salem? That  is  what  I  know  not  in  any  degree; 
some  of  them,  let  us  hope,  will  come  early,  some 
after  a  judicious  interval.  I  have  three  little  strangers 
knocking  at  the  door  of  Leslie  Stephen:  The  Pavilion 
on  the  Links,  a  blood  and  thunder  story,  accepted \ 
Yoshida  Torajiro,  sl  paper  on  a  Japanese  hero  who 
will  warm  your  blood,  postulant;  and  Henry  David 
Thoreau:  his  character  and  opinions — postulant  also. 
I  give  you  these  hints  knowing  you  to  love  the  best 
literature,  that  you  may  keep  an  eye  at  the  mast- 
head for  these  little  tit-bits.  Write  again,  and  soon, 
and  at  greater  length  to  your  friend. — Your  friend, 

(signed)  R.  L.  S. 

To  Charles  Baxter 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco,  Jan.  26,  '80 

MY  DEAR  CHARLES, — I  have  to  drop  from  a  50 
cent  to  a  25  cent  dinner;  to-day  begins  my  fall. 
That  brings  down  my  outlay  in  food  and  drink  to 
45  cents  or  is.  loW.  per  day.  How  are  the  mighty 
fallen!     Luckily,  this  is  such  a  cheap  plare  for  food; 


AET.  30]   PROFESSOR   MEIKLEJOHN      321 

I  used  to  pay  as  much  as  that  for  my  first  breakfast 
in  the  Savile  in  the  grand  old  palmy  days  of  yore.  I 
regret  nothing,  and  do  not  even  dislike  these  straits, 
though  the  flesh  will  rebel  on  occasion.  It  is  to- 
day bitter  cold,  after  weeks  of  lovely  warm  weather, 
and  I  am  all  in  a  chitter.  I  am  about  to  issue  for 
my  little  shilling  and  halfpenny  meal,  taken  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  the  poor  man's  hour;  and  I  shall 
eat  and  drink  to  your  prosperity. — Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S.  - 


To  Professor  Meiklejohn 

One  day  at  the  Savile  Club,  Stevenson,  hearing  a  certain  laugh, 
tried  out  that  he  must  know  the  laugher,  who  turned  out  to  be 
a  fellow-countryman,  the  late  John  Meiklejohn,  the  well-known 
educational  authority  and  professor  at  St.  Andrews  University. 
Stevenson  introduced  himself,  and  the  two  became  firm  friends. 
Allusion  was  made  a  few  pages  back  to  a  letter  from  Professor 
Meiklejohn  about  the  Burns  essay. 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco, 
California,  Feb.  ist,  1880 

MY  DEAR  MEIKLEJOHN, — You  must  think  me  a 
thankless  fellow  by  this  time;  but  if  you  knew  how 
harassed  and  how  sick  I  had  been,  and  how  I  have 
twice  begun  to  write  to  you  already,  you  might  con- 
descend to  forgive  the  puir  gangrel  body.  To  tell 
you  what  I  have  been  doing,  thinking,  and  coming 
through  these  six  or  seven  months  would  exhilarate 
nobody:  least  of  all  me.  Infandum  jubes,  so  I  hope 
you  won't.  I  have  done  a  great  deal  of  work,  but 
perhaps  my  health  of  mind  and  body  should  not 
let  me  expect  much  from  what  I  have  done.  At 
least  I  have  turned  the  corner;   my  feet  are  on  the 


322        LETTERS   OF  STEVENSON      [.880 

rock  again,  I  l)clievc,  and  I  shall  continue  to  pour 
forth  pure  and  wholesome  literature  for  the  masses 
as  per  invoice. 

I  am  glad  you  liked  Burns;  I  think  it  is  the  best 
thing  I  ever  did.  Did  not  the  national  vanity  ex- 
claim? Do  you  know  what  Shairp  thought?  I  think 
I  let  him  down  gently,  did  I  not? 

I  have  done  a  Thorcaii,  which  I  hope  you  may 
like,  though  I  have  a  feeling  that  perhaps  it  might 
be  better.  Please  look  out  for  a  little  paper  called 
Yoshida  Torajiro,  which,  I  hope,  will  appear  in 
Cornhill  ere  very  long;  the  subject,  at  least,  will 
interest  you.  I  am  to  appear  in  the  same  maga- 
zine with  a  real  'blood  and  bones  in  the  name  of 
God'  story.  Why  Stephen  took  it,  is  to  me  a  mys- 
tery; anyhow,  it  was  fun  to  write,  and  if  you  can 
interest  a  person  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  you  have 
not  been  idle.  When  I  suffer  in  mind,  stories  are 
my  refuge;  I  take  them  like  opium;  and  I  consider 
one  who  writes  them  as  a  sort  of  doctor  of  the  mind. 
And  frankly,  Meiklejohn,  it  is  not  Shakespeare  we 
take  to,  when  we  are  in  a  hot  corner;  nor,  certainly, 
George  Eliot — no,  nor  even  Balzac.  It  is  Charles 
Reade,  or  old  Dumas,  or  the  Arabian  Nights,  or  the 
best  of  Walter  Scott;  it  is  stories  we  want,  not  the 
high  poetic  function  which  represents  the  world; 
we  are  then  like  the  Asiatic  with  his  improvisatore 
or  the  middle-agee  with  his  trouvere.  We  want 
incident,  interest,  action:  to  the  devil  with  your 
philosophy.  When  we  are  well  again,  and  have  an 
easy  mind,  we  shall  peruse  your  important  work; 
but  what  we  want  now  is  a  drug.     So  I,  when  I 


AET.  30]    PROFESSOR  MEIKLEJOHN      323 

am  ready  to  go  beside  myself,  stick  my  head  into  a 
story-book,  as  the  ostrich  with  her  bush;  let  fate 
and  fortune  meantime  belabour  my  posteriors  at 
their  will. 

I  have  not  seen  the  Spectator  article;  nobody  sent 
it  to  me.  If  you  had  an  old  copy  lying  by  you,  you 
would  be  very  good  to  despatch  it  to  me.  A  little 
abuse  from  my  grandmamma  would  do  me  good  in 
health,  if  not  in  morals. 

This  is  merely  to  shake  hands  with  you  and  give 
you  the  top  of  the  morning  in  1880.  But  I  look  to 
be  answered;  and  then  I  shall  promise  to  answer  in 
return.  For  I  am  now,  so  far  as  that  can  be  in  this 
world,  my  own  man  again,  and  when  I  have  heard 
from  you,  I  shall  be  able  to  write  more  naturally 
and  at  length. 

At  least,  my  dear  Meiklejohn,  I  hope  you  will 
believe  in  the  sincerely  warm  and  friendly  regard  in 
which  I  hold  you,  and  the  pleasure  with  which  I 
look  forward,  not  only  to  hearing  from  you  shortly, 
but  to  seeing  you  again  in  the  flesh  with  another 
good  luncheon  and  good  talk.  Tell  me  when  you 
don't  like  my  work. — Your  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


324        LETTERS   OF   STI'VICNSON      [.880 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

The  essays  here  mentioned  on  Benjamin  Franklin  and  William 
Pcnn  were  projects  long  <  herishcd  but  in  the  end  abandoned: 
T}u  Forest  State  came  to  maturity  three  years  bter  as  I'rince  Otto. 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco, 
Cal.,  February  1880 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Before  my  work  or  anything  I 
sit  down  to  answer  your  long  and  kind  letter. 

I  am  well,  cheerful,  busy,  hopeful;  I  cannot  be 
knocked  down;  I  do  not  mind  about  the  Emigrant. 
I  never  thought  it  a  masterpiece.  It  was  written  to 
sell,  and  I  believe  it  will  sell;  and  if  it  does  not, 
the  next  will.  You  need  not  be  uneasy  about  my 
work;  I  am  only  beginning  to  see  my  true  method. 

(i)  As  to  Studies.  There  are  two  more  already 
gone  to  Stephen.  Yoshida  Torajiro,  which  I  think 
temperate  and  adequate;  and  Thoreau,  which  will 
want  a  really  Balzacian  effort  over  the  proofs.  But 
I  want  Benjamin  Franklin  and  the  Art  of  Virtue  to 
follow;  and  perhaps  also  William  Penn,  but  this 
last  may  be  perhaps  delayed  for  another  volume — 
I  think  not,  though.  The  Studies  will  be  an  intelli- 
gent volume,  and  in  their  latter  numbers  more  like 
what  I  mean  to  be  my  style,  or  I  mean  what  my 
style  means  to  be,  for  I  am  passive.  (2)  The  Essays. 
Good  news  indeed.  I  think  Ordered  South  must  be 
thrown  in.  Tt  always  swells  the  volume,  and  it  will 
never  find  a  more  appropriate  place.  It  was  May 
1874,  Macmillan,  I  believe.  (3)  Plays.  I  did  not 
understand  you  meant  to  try  the  draft.  I  shall  make 
you  a  full  scenario  as  soon  as  the  Emigrant  is  done. 


AET.  30]  W.  E.  HENLEY  325 

(4)  Emigrant.     He    shall   be    sent   off   next   week. 

(5)  Stories.  You  need  not  be  alarmed  that  I  am 
going  to  imitate  Meredith.  You  know  I  was  a 
story-teller  ingrain;  did  not  that  reassure  you?  The 
Vendetta,  which  falls  next  to  be  finished,  is  not 
entirely  pleasant.  But  it  has  points.  The  Forest 
State  or  The  Greenwood  State:  A  Romance,  is  an- 
other pair  of  shoes.  It  is  my  old  Semiramis,  our 
half-seen  Duke  and  Duchess,  which  suddenly  sprang 
into  sunshine  clearness  as  a  story  the  other  day. 
The  kind,  happy  denouement  is  unfortunately  abso- 
lutely undramatic,  which  will  be  our  only  trouble 
in  quarrying  out  the  play.  I  mean  we  shall  quarry 
from  it.  Characters — Otto  Frederick  John,  heredi- 
tary Prince  of  Griinwald;  Amelia  Seraphina,  Prin- 
cess; Conrad,  Baron  Gondremarck,  Prime  Minister; 
Cancellarius  Greisengesang;  Killian  Gottesacker, 
Steward  of  the  River  Farm;  Ottilie,  his  daughter; 
the  Countess  von  Rosen.  Seven  in  all.  A  brave 
story,  I  swear;  and  a  brave  play  too,  if  we  can  find 
the  trick  to  make  the  end.  The  play,  I  fear,  will 
have  to  end  darkly,  and  that  spoils  the  quality  as  I 
now  see  it  of  a  kind  of  crockery,  eighteenth  century, 
high-life-below-stairs  fife,  breaking  up  like  ice  in 
spring  before  the  nature  and  the  certain  modicum 
of  manhood  of  my  poor,  clever,  feather-headed 
Prince,  whom  I  love  already.  I  see  Seraphina  too. 
Gondremarck  is  not  quite  so  clear.  The  Countess 
von  Rosen,  I  have;  I'll  never  tell  you  who  she  is; 
it's  a  secret;  but  I  have  known  the  countess;  well, 
I  will  tell  you;  it's  my  old  Russian  friend,  Madame 
Zassetsky.     Certain  scenes  are,  in  conception,  the 


326        LKTTKRS   OF   STKVKNSON      [.880 

best  I  have  ever  made,  except  for  Hester  Noble. 
Those  at  the  end,  Von  Rosen  and  the  Princess,  the 
Prince  and  Princess,  and  the  Princess  and  Gon- 
dremarck,  as  I  now  see  them  from  here,  should  be 
nuts,  Ilcnlcy,  nuts.  It  irks  me  not  to  go  to  them 
straight.  But  the  Emigrant  stops  the  way;  then  a 
reassured  scenario  for  Hester;  then  the  Vendetta; 
then  two  (or  three)  essays — Benjamin  Franldin, 
Thoughts  on  Literature  as  an  Art,  Dialogue  on  Char- 
acter and  Destiny  between  two  Puppets,  The  Human 
Compromise;  and  then,  at  length — come  to  me,  my 
Prince.  O  Lord,  it's  going  to  be  courtly!  And 
there  is  not  an  ugly  person  nor  an  ugly  scene  in  it. 
The  Slate  both  Fanny  and  I  have  damned  utterly; 
it  is  too  morbid,  ugly,  and  unkind;  better  starvation. 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

I  had  written  proposing  that  a  collected  volume  of  his  short 
stories  should  be  published  with  illustrations  by  Caldecott.  At  the 
end  of  this  letter  occurs  his  first  allusion  to  his  now  famous  Requiem. 

[608  Bush  Street, 
San  Francisco,  February  1880] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  received  a  very  nice  letter 
from  you  with  two  enclosures.  I  am  still  unable  to 
finish  the  Emigrant,  although  there  are  only  some 
fifteen  pages  to  do.  The  Vendetta  is,  I  am  afraid, 
scarce  Fortnightly  form,  though  after  the  Pavilion 
being  taken  by  Stephen,  I  am  truly  at  sea  about  all 
such  matters.  I  dare  say  my  Prince  of  Griinewald — 
the  name  still  uncertain — would  be  good  enough  for 
anything  if  I  could  but  get  it  done:  I  believe  that  to 


AET.  30]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  327 

be  a  really  good  story.  The  Vendetta  is  somewhat 
cheap  in  motive;  very  rum  and  unlike  the  present 
kind  of  novels  both  for  good  and  evil  in  wanting; 
and  on  the  whole,  only  remarkable  for  the  heroine's 
character,  and  that  I  believe  to  be  in  it. 

I  am  not  well  at  all.  But  hope  to  be  better.  You 
know  I  have  been  hawked  to  death  these  last  months. 
And  then  I  lived  too  low,  I  fear;  and  any  way  I 
have  got  pretty  low  and  out  at  elbows  in  health. 
I  wish  I  could  say  better, — but  I  cannot.  With  a 
constitution  like  mine,  you  never  know — to-morrow 
I  may  be  carrying  topgallant  sails  again:  but  just  at 
present  I  am  scraping  along  with  a  jurymast  and  a 
kind  of  amateur  rudder.  Truly  I  have  some  misery, 
as  things  go;  but  these  things  are  mere  detail. 
However  I  do  not  want  to  crever,  daquer,  and  cave 
in  just  when  I  have  a  chance  of  some  happiness; 
nor  do  I  mean  to.  All  the  same,  I  am  more  and 
more  in  a  difficulty  how  to  move  every  day.  What 
a  day  or  an  hour  might  bring  forth,  God  forbid 
that  I  should  prophesy.  Certainly,  do  what  you  like 
about  the  stories;  Will  0'  the  Mill  or  not.  It  will 
be  Caldecott's  book  or  nobody's.  I  am  glad  you 
liked  the  Guitar:  I  always  did:  and  I  think  C. 
could  make  lovely  pikters  to  it:  it  almost  seems  as 
if  I  must  have  written  it  for  him  express. 

I  have  already  been  a  visitor  at  the  Club  for  a  fort- 
night; but  that's  over,  and  I  don't  much  care  to 
renew  the  period.  I  want  to  be  married,  not  to 
belong  to  all  the  Clubs  in  Christendie.  ...  I  half 
think  of  writing  up  the  Sand-lot  agitation  for 
Morley;   it  is  a  curious  business;  were  I  stronger, 


328        LK'l'l'l-RS   OF  S'lKVENSON      [isso 

I  should  try  to  sugar  in  with  some  of  the  leaders: 
a  chield  amang  'em  takin'  notes;  one,  who  kept  a 
brothel,  I  reckon,  before  she  started  socialist,  par- 
ticularly interests  me.  If  I  am  right  as  to  her  early 
industry,  you  know  she  would  be  sure  to  adore  me. 
I  have  been  all  my  days  a  dead  hand  at  a  harridan, 
I  never  saw  the  one  yet  that  could  resist  me.  When  1 
die  of  consumption,  you  can  put  that  upon  my  tomb. 


Sketch  of  my  tomb  follows: — 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

bom  1850,  of  a  family  of  engineers, 
died 

'Nitor  aquis.' 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

You,  who  pass  this  grave,  put  aside  hatred;  love  kind- 
ness; be  all  services  remembered  in  your  heart  and 
all  offences  pardoned;  and  as  you  go  down  again 
among  the  living,  let  this  be  your  question:  can  I 
make  some  one  happier  this  day  before  I  lie  down  to 
sleep  ?  Thus  the  dead  man  speaks  to  you  from  the 
dust:  you  will  hear  no  more  from  him. 


Who  knows,  Colvin,  but  I  may  thus  be  of  more  use 
when  I  am  buried  than  ever  when  I  was  alive  ?  The 
more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  earnestly  do  I  desire 
this.  I  may  perhaps  try  to  write  it  better  some  day; 
but  that  is  what  I  want  in  sense.  The  verses  are 
from  a  beayootiful  poem  by  me. 

R.  L.  o. 


AET.  3oj  SIDNEY  COLVIN  329 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco  [March  1880] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — My  landlord  and  landlady's 
little  four-year-old  child  is  dying  in  the  house;  and 
O,  what  he  has  suffered!  It  has  really  affected  my 
health.  O  never,  never,  any  family  for  me!  I  am 
cured  of  that. 

I  have  taken  a  long  holiday — have  not  worked  for 
three  days,  and  will  not  for  a  week;  for  I  was  really 
weary.  Excuse  this  scratch;  for  the  child  weighs  on 
me,  dear  Colvin.  I  did  all  I  could  to  help;  but  all 
seems  little,  to  the  point  of  crime,  when  one  of  these 
poor  innocents  lies  in  such  misery. — Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S.. 

To  J.  W.  Ferrier 

In  the  interval  between  this  letter  and  the  last,  the  writer  had 
been  down  with  an  acute  and  dangerous  illness.  Forester,  here 
mentioned,  was  an  autobiographical  paper  by  J.  W.  F.  on  his 
own  boyhood. 

P.O.  San  Francisco,  April  8th,  1880 

MY  DEAR  ferrier, — Many  thanks  for  your  letter, 
and  the  instalment  of  Forester  which  accompanied  it, 
and  which  I  read  with  amusement  and  pleasure.  I 
fear  Somerset's  letter  must  wait;  for  my  dear  boy,  I 
have  been  very  nearly  on  a  longer  voyage  than  usual; 
I  am  fresh  from  giving  Charon  a  quid  instead  of  an 
obolus:  but  he,  having  accepted  the  payment,  scorned 
me,  and  I  had  to  make  the  best  of  my  way  backward 
through  the  mallow-wood,  with  nothing  to  show  for 
this  displacement  but  the  fatigue  of  the  journey.     As 


330        LETTKRS   OF   STEVENSON      [.sao 

soon  as  I  feel  fit,  you  shall  iiave  the  letter,  trust  me. 
But  just  now  even  a  note  such  as  I  am  now  writing 
takes  it  out  of  me.  I  have,  truly,  been  very  sick;  I 
fear  I  am  a  vain  man,  for  I  thought  it  a  pity  I  should 
die.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  a  good  many 
would  be  disappointed;  but  for  myself,  although  I  still 
think  life  a  business  full  of  agreeable  features  I  was 
not  entirely  unwilling  to  give  it  up.  It  is  so  difficult 
to  behave  well;  and  in  that  matter,  I  get  more  dissat- 
isfied with  myself,  because  more  exigent,  every  day. 
I  shall  be  pleased  to  hear  again  from  you  soon.  I 
shall  be  married  early  in  May  and  then  go  to  the 
mountains,  a  very  withered  bridegroom.  I  think  your 
MS.  Bible,  if  that  were  a  specimen,  would  be  a  credit 
to  humanity.  Between  whiles,  collect  such  thoughts 
both  from  yourself  and  others:  I  somehow  believe 
every  man  should  leave  a  Bible  behind  him, — if  he  is 
unable  to  leave  a  jest  book.  I  feel  fit  to  leave  nothing 
but  my  benediction.  It  is  a  strange  thing  how,  do 
what  you  will,  nothing  seems  accomplished.  I  feel  as 
far  from  having  paid  humanity  my  board  and  lodging 
as  I  did  six  years  ago  when  I  was  sick  at  Mentone. 
But  I  dare  say  the  devil  would  keep  telling  me  so,  if 
I  had  moved  mountains,  and  at  least  I  have  been  very 
happy  on  many  different  occasions,  and  that  is  always 
something.  I  can  read  nothing,  write  nothing;  but 
a  little  while  ago  and  I  could  eat  nothing  either;  but 
now  that  is  changed.  This  is  a  long  letter  for  me; 
rub  your  hands,  boy,  for  'tis  an  honour. — Yours, 
from  Charon's  strand, 

R.  L.  S. 


AET.  30]  EDMUND   GOSSE  331 


To  Edmund  Gosse 

A  poetical  counterpart  to  this  letter  will  be  found  in  the  piece 
beginning  'Not  yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields  desert,'  which 
was  composed  at  the  same  time  and  is  printed  in  Underwoods. 

[San  Francisco,  April  i6,  1880] 

MY  DEAR  GOSSE, — You  have  not  answered  my  last; 
and  I  know  you  will  repent  when  you  hear  how  near  I 
have  been  to  another  world.  For  about  six  weeks  I 
have  been  in  utter  doubt;  it  was  a  toss-up  for  life  or 
death  all  that  time;  but  I  won  the  toss,  sir,  and  Hades 
went  off  once  more  discomfited.  This  is  not  the  first 
time,  nor  will  it  be  the  last,  that  I  have  a  friendly  game 
with  that  gentleman.  I  know  he  will  end  by  cleaning 
me  out;  but  the  rogue  is  insidious,  and  the  habit  of 
that  sort  of  gambling  seems  to  be  a  part  of  my  nature; 
it  was,  I  suspect,  too  much  indulged  in  youth;  break 
your  children  of  this  tendency,  my  dear  Gosse,  from 
the  first.  It  is,  when  once  formed,  a  habit  more  fatal 
than  opium — I  speak,  as  St.  Paul  says,  like  a  fool.  I 
have  been  very  very  sick;  on  the  verge  of  a  gallop- 
ing consumption,  cold  sweats,  prostrating  attacks  of 
cough,  sinking  fits  in  which  I  lost  the  power  of  speech, 
fever,  and  all  the  ugliest  circumstances  of  the  disease; 
and  I  have  cause  to  bless  God,  my  wife  that  is  to  be, 
and  one  Dr.  Bamford  (a  name  the  Muse  repels),  that 
I  have  come  out  of  all  this,  and  got  my  feet  once  more 
upon  a  little  hilltop,  with  a  fair  prospect  of  life  and 
some  new  desire  of  living.  Yet  I  did  not  wish  to  die, 
neither;  only  I  felt  unable  to  go  on  farther  with  that 
rough  horseplay  of  human  life:  a  man  must  be  pretty 
well  to  take  the  business  in  good  part.      Yet  I  felt  all 


2,^2       LKTTKRS   OF   STEVENSON      [.880 

the  time  that  I  had  done  nothing  to  entitle  me  to  an 
honourable  dischari^c;  that  I  had  taken  up  many  obli- 
gations and  begun  many  friendships  which  I  had  no 
right  to  put  away  from  me;  and  that  for  me  to  die  was 
to  play  the  cur  and  slinking  sybarite,  and  desert  the 
colours  on  the  eve  of  the  decisive  fight.  Of  course  I 
have  done  no  work  for  I  do  not  know  how  long;  and 
here  you  can  triumph.  I  have  been  reduced  to  writing 
verses  for  amusement.  A  fact.  The  whirligig  of  time 
brings  in  its  revenges,  after  all.  But  I'll  have  them 
buried  with  me,  I  think,  for  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
burn  them  while  I  live.  Do  write.  I  shall  go  to  the 
mountains  as  soon  as  the  weather  clears;  on  the  way 
thither,  I  marry  myself;  then  I  set  up  "my  family 
altar  among  the  pine-woods,  3000  feet,  sir,  from  the 
disputatious  sea. — I  am,  dear  Weg,  most  truly  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Dr.  W.  Bamford 

With  a  copy  of  Travels  with  a  Donkey. 

[San  Francisco,  April  1880] 

MY  DEAR  SIR, — Will  you  let  me  offer  you  this  little 
book?  If  I  had  anything  better,  it  should  be  yours. 
May  you  not  dislike  it,  for  it  will  be  your  own  handi- 
work if  there  are  other  fruits  from  the  same  tree!  But 
for  your  kindness  and  skill,  this  would  have  been 
my  last  book,  and  now  I  am  in  hopes  that  it  will  be 
neither  my  last  nor  my  best. 

You  doctors  have  a  serious  responsibility.  You 
recall  a  man  from  the  gates  of  death,  you  give  him 
health  and  strength  once  more  to  use  or  to  abuse. 


AET.  30]  SIDNEY   COLVIN  333 

I  hope  I  shall  feel  your  responsibility  added  to  my 
own,  and  seek  in  the  future  to  make  a  better  profit 
of  the  life  you  have  renewed  to  me. — I  am,  my  dear 
sir,  gratefully  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


To  Sidney  Colvtn 

[San  Francisco,  April  1880] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — You  must  be  sick  indeed  of  my 
demand  for  books,  for  you  have  seemingly  not  yet 
sent  me  one.  Still,  I  live  on  promises:  waiting  for 
Penn,  for  H.  James's  Hawthorne,  for  my  Burns,  etc.; 
and  now,  to  make  matters  worse,  pending  your  cen- 
turies, etc.,  I  do  earnestly  desire  the  best  book  about 
mythology  (if  it  be  German,  so  much  the  worse;  send 
a  bunctionary  along  with  it,  and  pray  for  me).  This 
is  why.  If  I  recover,  I  feel  called  on  to  write  a  vol- 
ume of  gods  and  demi-gods  in  exile:  Pan,  Jove,  Cyb- 
ele,  Venus,  Charon,  etc.;  and  though  I  should  like  to 
take  them  very  free,  I  should  like  to  know  a  little 
about  'em  to  begin  with.  For  two  days,  till  last  night, 
I  had  no  night  sweats,  and  my  cough  is  almost  gone, 
and  I  digest  well;  so  all  looks  hopeful.  However,  I 
was  near  the  other  side  of  Jordan.  I  send  the  proof 
of  Thoreau  to  you,  so  that  you  may  correct  and  fill  up 
the  quotation  from  Goethe.  It  is  a  pity  I  was  ill,  as, 
for  matter,  I  think  I  prefer  that  to  any  of  my  essays 
except  Burns;  but  the  style,  though  quite  manly, 
never  attains  any  melody  or  lenity.  So  much  for  con- 
sumption: I  begin  to  appreciate  what  the  Emigrant 
must  be.     As  soon  as  I  have  done  the  last  few  pages 


334       LKTIKRS   OF    STKVKNSON      [1880 

of  the  Emigrant  they  shall  go  to  you.  But  when  will 
that  be  ?  I  know  not  quite  yet— I  have  to  be  so  care- 
ful.— Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[San  Francisco,  May  1880] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,— My  dear  people  telegraphed  me 
in  these  words: '  Count  on  250  pounds  annually.'  You 
may  imagine  what  a  blessed  business  this  was.  And 
so  now  recover  the  sheets  of  the  Emigrant,  and  post 
them  registered  to  me.  And  now  please  give  me  all 
your  venom  against  it;  say  your  worst,  and  most  in- 
cisively, for  now  it  will  be  a  help,  and  I'll  make  it  right 
or  perish  in  the  attempt.  Now,  do  you  understand 
why  I  protested  against  your  depressing  eloquence  on 
the  subject  ?  When  I  Jiad  to  go  on  any  way,  for  dear 
life,  I  thought  it  a  kind  of  pity  and  not  much  good  to 
discourage  me.  Now  all's  changed.  God  only  knows 
how  much  courage  and  suffering  is  buried  in  that  MS. 
The  second  part  was  written  in  a  circle  of  hell  un- 
known to  Dante — that  of  the  penniless  and  dying 
author.  For  dying  I  was,  although  now  saved.  An- 
other week,  the  doctor  said,  and  I  should  have  been 
past  salvation.  T  think  I  shall  always  think  of  it  as 
my  best  work.  There  is  one  page  in  Part  II.,  about 
having  got  to  shore,  and  sich,  which  must  have  cost 
me  altogether  six  hours  of  work  as  miserable  as  ever 
I  went  through.  I  feel  sick  even  to  think  of  it.— Ever 
your  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 


AET.  30]  SIDNEY  COLVIN  335 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Sati  Francisco,  May  1880] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — I  received  your  letter  and  proof 
to-day,  and  was  greatly  delighted  with  the  last. 

I  am  now  out  of  danger;  in  but  a  short  while  (i.e.  as 
soon  as  the  weather  is  settled) ,  F.  and  I  marry  and  go 
up  to  the  hills  to  look  for  a  place;  'I  to  the  hills  will 
lift  mine  eyes,  from  whence  doth  come  mine  aid': 
once  the  place  found,  the  furniture  will  follow.  There, 
sir,  in,  I  hope,  a  ranche,  among  the  pine-trees  and 
hard  by  a  running  brook,  we  are  to  fish,  hunt,  sketch, 
study  Spanish,  French,  Latin,  Euclid,  and  History; 
and,  if  possible,  not  quarrel.  Far  from  man,  sir,  in 
the  virgin  forest.  Thence,  as  my  strength  returns, 
you  may  expect  works  of  genius.  I  always  feel  as  if 
I  must  write  a  work  of  genius  some  time  or  other;  and 
when  is  it  more  likely  to  come  off,  than  just  after  I 
have  paid  a  visit  to  Styx  and  go  thence  to  the  eternal 
mountains?  Such  a  revolution  in  a  man's  affairs,  as 
I  have  somewhere  written,  would  set  anybody  singing. 
When  we  get  installed,  Lloyd  and  I  are  going  to  print 
my  poetical  works;  so  all  those  who  have  been  poeti- 
cally addressed  shall  receive  copies  of  their  addresses. 
They  are,  I  believe,  pretty  correct  literary  exercises, 
or  will  be,  with  a  few  filings;  but  they  are  not  remark- 
able for  white-hot  vehemence  of  inspiration;  tepid 
works!  respectable  versifications  of  very  proper  and 
even  original  sentiments:  kind  of  Hayleyistic,  I  fear — 
but  no,  this  is  morbid  self-depreciation.  The  family 
is  all  very  shaky  in  health,  but  our  motto  is  now  Al 


336       LETTERS   OF   STEVENSON      [isso 

Monte!  in  the  words  of  Don  Lope,  in  the  play  the  sis- 
ter and  I  are  just  beating  through  with  two  bad  dic- 
tionaries and  an  insane  grammar.     I  to  the  hills. — 

Yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  C.  W.  Stoddard 

This  correspondent  is  the  late  Mr.  Charles  Warren  Stoddard, 
author  of  Summer  Cruising  in  the  South  Seas,  etc.,  with  whom 
Stevenson  had  made  friends  in  the  manner  and  amid  the  scenes 
faithfully  described  in  Tlie  Wrecker,  in  the  chapter  called  'Faces 
on  the  City  Front.' 

East  Oakland,  CaL,  May  1880 

MY  DEAR  STODDARD, — I  am  guilty  in  thy  sight  and 
the  sight  of  God.  However,  I  swore  a  great  oath  that 
you  should  see  some  of  my  manuscript  at  last;  and 
though  I  have  long  delayed  to  keep  it,  yet  it  was  to  be. 
You  re-read  your  story  and  were  disgusted;  that  is  the 
cold  fit  following  the  hot.  I  don't  say  you  did  wrong 
to  be  disgusted,  yet  I  am  sure  you  did  wrong  to  be  dis- 
gusted altogether.  There  was,  you  may  depend  upon 
it,  some  reason  for  your  previous  vanity,  as  well  as 
your  present  mortification.  I  shall  hear  you,  years 
from  now,  timidly  begin  to  retrim  your  feathers  for  a 
little  self-laudation,  and  trot  out  this  misdespised  nov- 
elette as  not  the  worst  of  your  performances.  I  read 
the  album  extracts  with  sincere  interest;  but  I  regret 
that  you  spared  to  give  the  paper  more  development; 
and  I  conceive  that  you  might  do  a  great  deal  worse 
than  expand  each  of  its  paragraphs  into  an  essay  or 
sketch,  the  excuse  being  in  each  case  your  personal 
intercourse;  the  bulk,  when  that  would  not  be  suffi- 
cient, to  be  made  up  from  their  own  works  and  sto- 
ries.  Three  at  least— Menken,  Yelverton,  and  Keeler 


AET.  30]  SIDNEY   COLVIN  337 

— could  not  fail  of  a  vivid  human  interest.  Let  me 
press  upon  you  this  plan;  should  any  document  be 
wanted  from  Europe,  let  me  offer  my  services  to 
procure  it.  I  am  persuaded  that  there  is  stuff  in 
the  idea. 

Are  you  coming  over  again  to  see  me  some  day 
soon  ?  I  keep  returning,  and  now  hand  over  fist,  from 
the  realms  of  Hades:  I  saw  that  gentleman  between 
the  eyes,  and  fear  him  less  after  each  visit.  Only 
Charon,  and  his  rough  boatmanship,  I  somewhat  fear. 

I  have  a  desire  to  write  some  verses  for  your  album; 
so,  if  you  will  give  me  the  entry  among  your  gods, 
goddesses,  and  godlets,  there  will  be  nothing  wanting 
but  the  Muse.  I  think  of  the  verses  like  Mark 
Twain;  sometimes  I  wish  fulsomely  to  belaud  you; 
sometimes  to  insult  your  city  and  fellow-citizens; 
sometimes  to  sit  down  quietly,  with  the  slender  reed, 
and  troll  a  few  staves  of  Panic  ecstasy — but  fy!  fy!  as 
my  ancestors  observed,  the  last  is  too  easy  for  a  man 
of  my  feet  and  inches. 

At  least,  Stoddard,  you  now  see  that,  although  so 
costive,  when  I  once  begin  I  am  a  copious  letter- 
writer.     I  thank  you  and  an  revoir. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

[5cm  Francisco,  May  1880] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — It  IS  a  long  while  since  I  have 
heard  from  you;  nearly  a  month,  I  believe;  and  I  be- 
gin to  grow  very  uneasy.  At  first  I  was  tempted  to 
suppose  that  I  had  been  myself  to  blame  in  some  way; 


338       LKTTl'RS   OF   STFVENSON      [.880 

but  now  I  have  grown  to  fear  lest  some  sickness  or 
trouble  among  those  whom  you  love  may  not  be  the 
impediment.  I  believe  I  shall  soon  hear;  so  I  wait  as 
best  I  can.  I  am,  beyond  a  doubt,  greatly  stronger, 
and  yet  still  useless  for  any  work,  and,  I  may  say,  for 
any  pleasure.  My  affairs  and  the  bad  weather  still 
keep  me  here  unmarried;  but  not,  I  earnestly  hope, 
for  long.  Whenever  I  get  into  the  mountain,  I  trust 
I  shall  rapidly  pick  up.  Until  I  get  away  from  these 
sea  fogs  and  my  imprisonment  in  the  house,  I  do  not 
hope  to  do  much  more  than  keep  from  active  harm. 
My  doctor  took  a  desponding  fit  about  me,  and  scared 
Fanny  into  blue  fits;  but  I  have  talked  her  over  again. 
It  is  the  change  I  want,  and  the  blessed  sun,  and  a 
gentle  air  in  which  I  can  sit  out  and  see  the  trees  and 
running  water:  these  mere  defensive  hygienics  can- 
not advance  one,  though  they  may  prevent  evil.  I  do 
nothing  now,  but  try  to  possess  my  soul  in  peace,  and 
continue  to  possess  my  body  on  any  terms. 

Calistoga,  Napa  County,  California. — All  which  is 
a  fortnight  old  and  not  much  to  the  point  nowadays. 
Here  we  are,  Fanny  and  I,  and  a  certain  hound,  in 
a  lovely  valley  under  Mount  Saint  Helena,  looking 
around,  or  rather  wondering  when  we  shall  begin  to 
look  around,  for  a  house  of  our  own,  I  have  received 
the  first  sheets  of  the  Amateur  Emigrant;  not  yet  the 
second  bunch,  as  announced.  It  is  a  pretty  heavy, 
emphatic  piece  of  pedantry;  but  I  don't  care;  the 
public,  I  verily  believe,  will  like  it.  I  have  excised 
all  you  proposed  and  more  on  my  own  movement. 
But  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  rewrite  the  two  special 
pieces  which,  as  you  said,  so  badly  wanted  it;  it  is 


AET.  3o]  SIDNEY   COLVIN  339 

hard  work  to  rewrite  passages  in  proof;  and  the 
easiest  work  is  still  hard  to  me.  But  I  am  certainly 
recovering  fast;  a  married  and  convalescent  being. 

Received  James's  Hawthorne,  on  which  I  meditate 
a  blast,  Miss  Bird,  Dixon's  Penn,  a  wrong  Cornhill 
(like  my  luck)  and  Coquelin:  for  all  which,  and  es- 
pecially the  last,  I  tender  my  best  thanks.  I  have 
opened  only  James;  it  is  very  clever,  very  well  writ- 
ten, and  out  of  sight  the  most  inside-out  thing  in  the 
world;  I  have  dug  up  the  hatchet;  a  scalp  shall  flutter 
at  my  belt  ere  long.  I  think  my  new  book  should  be 
good;  it  will  contain  our  adventures  for  the  summer, 
so  far  as  these  are  worth  narrating;  and  I  have  al- 
ready a  few  pages  of  diary  which  should  make  up 
bright.  I  am  going  to  repeat  my  old  experiment, 
after  buckling-to  a  while  to  write  more  correctly,  lie 
down  and  have  a  wallow.  Whether  I  shall  get  any  of 
my  novels  done  this  summer  I  do  not  know;  I  wish  to 
finish  the  Vendetta  first,  for  it  really  could  not  come 
after  Prince  Otto.  Lewis  Campbell  has  made  some 
noble  work  in  that  Agamemnon;  it  surprised  me. 
We  hope  to  get  a  house  at  Silverado,  a  deserted  min- 
ing-camp eight  miles  up  the  mountain,  now  solely  in- 
habited by  a  mighty  hunter  answering  to  the  name 
of  Rufe  Hansome,  who  slew  last  year  a  hundred  and 
fifty  deer.  This  is  the  motto  I  propose  for  the  new 
volume:  '  Vixerunt  nonnulli  in  agris,  delectati  re  sua 
familiari.  His  idem  propositum  fuit  quod  re  gibus,  ut 
ne  qua  re  egerent,  ne  cut  parerent,  lihertate  uterentur; 
cujus  proprium  est  sic  vivere  ut  velis.''  I  always  have 
a  terror  lest  the  wish  should  have  been  father  to  the 
translation,  when  I  come  to  quote;  but  that  seems  too 


340        LETTERS   OF    STEVENSON       [.sso 

plain  sailing.  I  should  put  regibus  in  capitals  for  the 
pleasantry's  sake.  We  are  in  the  Coast  range,  that 
being  so  much  cheaper  to  reach;  the  family,  I  hope, 
will  soon  follow.     Love  to  all. — Ever  yours, 

R..  L.  S. 


i 

i 

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